Resident Evil: Belief
by Kenny's Friend
Summary: Raccoon City is in ashes. Across the U.S., an unwitting police officer is thrown into the horror of a hostage situation unlike any other. Meanwhile, the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. are back from the dead and continuing to hack at the root of evil.
1. Prologue

**Thousands Killed as Fire Sweeps Through Mountain Community. Mysterious Illness May Be Involved *  
**_Associated Press  
_6 October, 1998

NEW YORK, NY – The secluded mountain community of Raccoon City, PA, has officially been declared a disaster area by state and federal officials, as dedicated firefighters continue to wage war against the dying blazes and the death toll continues to rise. It is now estimated that over seven thousand people were killed by the explosive fires that raged through Raccoon in the early hours of Sunday, October 4. It is being called the worst U.S. disaster in terms of lives lost since the industrial age, and as national aid organizations and international press flock to the blockades surrounding the still burning ruins of the city, shocked friends and family of Raccoon citizens have been gathering, waiting for word in nearby Latham.

National Disaster Control (NDC) Director Terrence Chavez, coordinator for the combined efforts of the multiple firefighting and emergency teams, released a statement to the press last night stating that barring unforeseen complications, he expects the last of the flames to be extinguished before midweek – but that it may be months before the origin of the fire is determined, as well as whether or not arson was involved. Said Chavez, "The magnitude of the damage in terms of area alone is going to make finding the answers a great undertaking, but the answers are there. We will get to the bottom of this, whatever it takes."

As of 6 A.M. today, seventy-eight survivors have been found, and their names and conditions withheld; they have been transported to an undisclosed federal facility for observation and/or treatment. Initial reports by HazMat teams suggest that an unknown illness may be responsible for the incredible number of victims, as infected citizens were unable to escape due to the possibly incapacitating sickness. There is the further suggestion that the disease may have included violent psychosis in some of those infected. Members of private and federal disease–control centers have called for extending the quarantine boundaries, and although no official statement has been released, there have been several "leaked" descriptions of physical and biological abnormalities in many of the victims. Said one source, a worker for a federal assessment team, "Some of those people weren't just burned or dead from smoke inhalation. I saw people who'd been killed by gunshot wounds or stabbings, [and] other forms of violence. I saw people who'd obviously been sick, dead, or dying long before the fire ever hit. The fire was bad – terrible – but it's not the only disaster that occurred there, I'd bet money on it."

Raccoon city was in the news earlier this year when a series of unusual murders rocked the community. These were apparently unmotivated slayings, of extreme violence, and several involved cannibalism; already, tentative connections are being made by the local press near Raccoon between the eleven unsolved murders from last summer and the rumors of mass violence prior to the consuming flames.

Mr. Chavez refused to confirm or deny the rumors, saying only that investigations into the tragedy will be thorough…

* * *

**Terrorist Attack on U.S. Soil  
**_News Weekly  
_18 October, 1998

WASHINGTON D.C., MD – The disaster of astronomical proportions – fires sweeping the Raccoon Valley, PA and leaving over 7200 people dead – are now pronounced by NDC as "intentional". It is now being deemed the work of terrorists, possibly affiliated with Al–Queda or any number of other organizations in the Middle East. There are many disputes breaking out over in Congress whether or not terrorists are responsible for such an act of violence against the United States, and for what motivation.

All available aid has been sent to the area, and NDC director Terrence Chavez is assuring the public that the situation is "being dealt with." However, he refused to comment on the reports of a serious epidemic that claimed the lives of several thousand individuals in the Raccoon Valley before the fire ever hit. Symptoms of this "Raccoon syndrome" include rapid cell disintegration and a steady loss of mental capacity. Bizarre reports of primitive cannibalism are also trickling in from the local press, but those pertaining to the most serious – and current – cases are being kept extremely hushed.

"This is a serious situation," said President Clinton from the Oval Office yesterday morning, addressing this incident of national concern. "If we let terrorists just come in and knock out the chief cities in our country and then do nothing about it, then the attacks will become frequent and many, many more lives will be lost. This attack will be answered."

"It is a black mark on our Government's record to realize that it took us several weeks to notice that something was wrong in Raccoon," said Chavez, referring to the origin of the disaster in late September. "Only after the city was razed did we finally step in. It is my hope that such blatant disregard for public safety will be avoided in the future." As early as yesterday, police and rescue squads are combing through the still–burning rubble of Raccoon in the hopes of locating any survivors, although the searchers' hopes remain relatively low.

Said one reporter affiliated with _Associated Press_, it is being called the "worst U.S. disaster in terms of lives lost since the industrial age". The Raccoon Valley has been effectively blockaded as residents in the immediate vicinity of Raccoon City itself are evacuated and checked for this "Raccoon Sickness" and any other abnormalities.

As far as what actions will commence, President Clinton has not made comment. Cabinet officials are refusing to answer any questions, although it is said that the President plans on recruiting the help of a certain agency that has national popularity, the S.T.A.R.S. Special Tactics And Rescue Service, to aid in the tracking down of the responsible terrorists. The S.T.A.R.S., a privately funded organization, are a branch of special police, skilled in riot control and search–and–rescue operations, but their mission prerogatives also include managing terrorist activity. The organization was in the news recently when a branch of its task force in Raccoon, PA was suspended after a drug–related incident involving a helicopter crash and the resulting deaths of six team members. Incidentally, this team of S.T.A.R.S. had been involved in a multiple homicide investigation this past July in the Raccoon Valley. S.T.A.R.S. Director Marco Palmieri (from S.T.A.R.S. HQ in New York, NY) refused to answer questions concerning the possible relation between this "Raccoon syndrome" and the earlier investigation of the Raccoon murders…

* * *

**Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. Special Police Team Remains Unaccounted  
**_The World Today  
_27 October, 1998

PHILADELPHIA, PA – S.T.A.R.S. [Special Tactics And Rescue Service] assistant director Tom Kurtz issued a brief statement addressing the fact that the Raccoon Branch of the S.T.A.R.S. is still unaccounted for as cleanup in the Raccoon Valley, PA continues. Said Kurtz, "We have reason to believe that they were attacked in their homes prior to the bombing of Raccoon by unknowns, but we don't know whether [or not] there were any casualties sustained in their numbers. The fact remains that we have no clue where any of them are now. It was rumored that a number of them have left the United States, but there is no evidence to back this claim. Since Raccoon has been destroyed, we have every reason to believe that they died in either the bombing or the strange epidemic that hit the Raccoon Valley."

The S.T.A.R.S. organization has received notable honors for services to the country over the years although they remain largely unknown. Founded in New York in 1967, the privately funded S.T.A.R.S. organization was originally created as a measure against cult-affiliated terrorism by a group of retired military officials and ex-field operatives from both the CIA and FBI. Under the guidance from former NSDA (National Security and Defense Agency) director Marco Palmieri, the group quickly expanded its services to include everything from hostage negotiation to code breaking to riot control. Working with local police agencies, each branch office of the S.T.A.R.S. is designed to work as a complete unit in itself. **

The Raccoon branch personnel, all of whom were suspended under previously withheld litigations (**i.e.** drug abuse and questionable mental stability), are now counted as casualties of this disastrous terrorist attack. The deceased members of the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. team are listed as follows:

_Bravo Squad_ ––Chambers, Rebecca; Sullivan, Kenneth; Speyer, Forest; Aiken, Richard; Marini, Enrico (Captain)

_Alpha Squad_ –– Burton, Barry; Valentine, Jill; Redfield, Christopher; Frost, Joseph; Wesker, Albert (Captain)

* * *

**Raccoon Valley, Pennsylvania Remains Volatile  
**_The World Today  
_10 November, 1998

PHILADELPHIA, PA – The NSDA quarantine of the Victory District – as well as the remains of Raccoon City itself – remains ineffective. Cases of this "Raccoon syndrome" are appearing as far as Montgomery and Philadelphia, despite Umbrella Biohazard's best efforts. Diseased survivors of the fire that razed Raccoon to the ground are slipping past police lines, even attacking them. Police have been ordered to kill on sight, to "ensure the safety of the surrounding communities," according to Terrence Chavez, Director of National Disaster Control (NDC).

The "cannibal virus", which has been revealed to spread primarily through bodily fluids or virus–tainted water, remains untreatable, reducing hosts to mindless shadows of their former selves as their bodies rapidly begin deteriorating. According to experts, the violent and cannibalistic tendencies are due to the rapid loss of brain functionality: says Mark Surrey (Ph.D. in virology, researcher with Umbrella Inc.), "The human mind runs on desire, and despite the fact that these poor people have been reduced to zombies for all intents and purposes, they still have some capacity for understanding their physical needs. The primary necessity is sustenance." Surrey and his HazMat team of researchers have been venturing into the Raccoon ruins to perform firsthand research.

The Biohazard division of Umbrella Inc., which has been working closely with NDC since the beginning of the crisis, was recently given permission to venture into the "hot zone" to begin an investigatory cleanup. These HazMat teams – like Surrey's – have been retrieving evidence on the viral outbreak, the most serious proponent of the disaster. According to Umbrella authorities, the epidemic began perhaps weeks before fire even started, even if symptoms were not immediately apparent. According to Surrey, it was "almost a good thing that the fire hit Raccoon when it did, because most of the virus carriers – for whom we could have done little or nothing – were killed in the blaze. This fact alone has reduced the potential spread of the virus literally by half."

And yet, the threat – and spread – of the epidemic still remain increasingly serious. Umbrella has deemed the atmosphere in Raccoon as "stable", as the airborne strain of the virus has apparently died out, but it remains dangerous in the Valley. Intimate contact with anyone infected is almost a guaranteed infection, as no one so far has shown any type of immunity to this virus. The infected show only aggressive tendencies, preying upon anything and anyone alive or dead. Although many bodies have been brought in for biopsies – all handled by Umbrella's biohazard division – there have been no statements issued as yet on more complex details of this epidemic.

* * *

**Umbrella Pharmaceutical Announces Construction of New Research Facility  
**_Times  
_21 December, 1998

CHARLESTON, SC – President of Umbrella Enterprises, Kennedy Hall (57), announced today that construction of a brand new research plant in West Virginia has been approved by zoning commissioners, and the opening stages are to commence on the 19th of January in the new year. "In light of the recent tragedy to hit the Raccoon Valley," said Hall in his speech thanking the FDA and the Board of Health, "the government has sanctioned this project and given us the most generous grant we have ever received in the history of Umbrella Biologics. To honor such a gift, we are devoting this new facility entirely to the study of virology, so as to counter the epidemic in Pennsylvania and to prepare America for any possible type of viral or bacterial outbreak in the future."

This research lab, the twenty-ninth Umbrella plant stateside, is estimated to cost approximately 12.7 million dollars and will not be completed until sometime in June of 2000. Fears of Y2K to be addressed…

* * *

**Woman Escapes Assault  
**_World News  
_18 January, 1999

PHILADELPHIA, PA – A normal winter day in Petersville, Pennsylvania: sunny, cold, peaceful. Ms. Josephine May had just gotten back from the grocery store and was unloading the family minivan when she "felt a prickle up my spine and turned to find a man standing there, breathing heavily and swaying back and forth." According to Ms. May, when she demanded to know who the man was, he made no reply, but stared at her "with bloodshot eyes, drooling and gasping like he couldn't breathe." Naturally, Ms. May ran into the house and called local police, but by the time they had arrived, the mysterious man was gone, although Ms. May was sure he couldn't have gone far, considering the state he was in.

This is not the first incident of its kind: dozens of people in Maine, Connecticut, and New Jersey have had encounters with potentially dangerous individuals – none of them in their right minds. Local police have made several arrests, but the men they have taken into custody have been mysteriously released, raising considerable protests from local courts. Many believe that these encounters are being kept hush–hush, and that the police have not yet found the real "culprits", if they can be called as such. Many others are suspicious of a connection between these attacks and the disaster to befall the Raccoon Valley in the summer just last year…

* * *

* taken from _Resident Evil: Underworld_ by S. D. Perry

** taken from _Resident Evil: The Umbrella Conspiracy_ by S. D. Perry


	2. Him

**Chapter 1: Him

* * *

**27b Maine Street  
Sheena, Nevada  
13 June, 1999  
1837 hrs (6:37 pm)

* * *

Life was easy for a cop living in a city like Sheena, a place where things usually went well, where the gas prices were relatively low for Nevada, and where the temperatures were only unbearable toward the end of the summer.

Sheena was north of the Great Basin, situated in the heart of White Pine County. The city was a desert flower, all white concrete and healthy green foliage, owing its prosperity to oil drilling back in the 1800s and considerable donations from several million–dollar enterprises. She was a tropical oasis now, devoid of pollutant industry for the most part, boasting of relatively low taxes, and far enough from Vegas to remain relatively untouched by the lawless abandon of that city.

Justin Cantori _was_ a cop, and he lived in the Sheena community – specifically in side _B _of a duplex halfway down Maine Street, five houses from where the road intersected Madison Avenue. The development was relatively new, decidedly suburban, and the streets were named after states. It was the sort of community always enamored in the happy movies: quiet, lined by white–barked trees from beginning to end, full of neighbors who know everyone and their mother's business and children who play soccer on the asphalt in the dry summer heat.

These same children were thrilled by the fact that a "real–life policeman" lived on their street (a fact that, for some reason, made their exceptionally law–abiding parents exceptionally nervous). Whole crowds of them would often go out of their way just to say hello to Justin – especially when he would walk down the street, heading for the local library or coffee house.

He didn't mind the attention. In fact, it made him feel like a part of the community he protected, instilling in his guts some semblance of belonging, something that had eluded him for the larger part of his life. He would grin like a fool, waving as the kids ran parallel with his squad car, following him down to the street corner.

Three blocks from City Hall, nested comfortably at the intersection of James' Highway and Route 50,was the Municipal building and police station. It was three stories and boasted both a helicopter pad on the roof and the largest administrative parking lot in Sheena City. At most, it was a ten minute drive from Justin Cantori's house – fifteen if he hit the four–minute traffic light at 25th and Roosevelt.

Justin had been with the force for two full years, and as of Friday the 13th of June, 1999, had only been sergeant of his detail for a month–and–a–half. He was a small man at only 5' 8" and 160 pounds, strong despite his size, and quick on his feet. He wore contacts as opposed to glasses, exercised routinely to remain lean, and kept his persistent beard in check. People often mistook him as Israeli, due to his larger–than–average nose and exceptionally curly hair, but he was actually of Italian descent – as if the surname didn't give it away.

Friday and Sunday evenings he didn't have night shift, although he honestly wouldn't have minded filling a full week. After all, he only had his sixteen–inch television and his dog to keep him company on nights off. To make matters worse, he didn't even have cable, and the eight channels he _did_ have tended to be temperamental. But these circumstances certainly didn't mean he was unhappy with his life. Quite to the contrary: perhaps he wasn't the _happiest_ man living in Sheena, but he was by far one of the most contented.

That Friday the 13th began not unlike any other Friday the 13th since Cantori wasn't superstitious, but what happened later that evening left a lot to be explained.

Morning routine was a nice way to break in the day, but the afternoon had been interesting – a break from the otherwise slow summer hours. Justin had caught some kid in a Mustang speeding in a twenty–mph zone. The Sheena cops had an unspoken policy where they usually only nabbed speeders when they were ten to fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit. They would usually let people get away with five on the sparsely travelled back roads, perhaps even ten miles over (depending on the cop's mood), but nineteen–year–old Jack Harding, who had run the light at the Waterfield Road/Honey Avenue intersection – where traffic was more than abundant – had been doing thirty-seven past: Justin had clocked him.

Casually, he'd sidled up behind, run the Mustang's plates through the database, and then put on his flashers after the next light –

And as any good cop would do, he'd given chase when the kid refused to pull over. He'd ended up following the speeder across the Sheena downtown, almost to the interstate. In the end, one of the other officers on Justin's squad had boxed in the violator, forcing him to stop or risk personal injury and damage to his vehicle. Naturally, they'd cuffed him for a night in holding, and Justin had hit Harding with three fat tickets: failure to obey a police officer, reckless driving, and failure to wear a seatbelt. Funny enough, the kid had nothing to hide in his car: no smack, no weapons, no booze. Just a record of speeding that was finally catching up to him.

_At least he didn't try to foot it when we cornered him,_ Justin thought absently as he dug leftovers from the back of his refrigerator. Harding had points on his license already and, with the escapade earlier that afternoon, was facing imminent driving suspension. _Still, you'd think the kid would be smart enough to just take the ticket and rough it out._

But it wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Sometimes the whackjobs abandoned their hovels in Sin City and travelled north. But then again, there were plenty of resident nutcases in the Sheena district: after all, Nevada had been originally settled by Mormons.

Justin crossed the kitchen and plopped the Tupperware of macaroni unceremoniously into the microwave, relishing the blissful silence in the apartment. Listening to police chatter all day never failed to give him a headache. Alyx followed him, licking her chops eagerly. Justin wasn't an animal freak or anything like that, but he had always kind of been a dog–person, and Alyx had always been a people–Husky, so they got along well enough.

He bent to scratch behind her ears. "None for you," he said sternly, as though that would deter her from begging. It was hard to keep a straight face when she was wagging her tail like that. "You got your nice, dry, bland dog food to eat. Keeps your teeth healthy. You'll thank me later."

No she wouldn't. In fact, she'd never thanked him for a single damned thing he'd done for her. He was actually thinking about some counseling – something to help them work out their differences. As it was, they had their disagreements about running the house, considering that both man and animal felt that they owned the place. What they really needed was a fucking Constitution, complete with a Bill of Rights, but Justin thought they'd done a decent job in divvying up the responsibilities without one: he brought home the beef and kept the plumbing unclogged, so Alyx did all the routine cleaning, picked the kids up from the daycare, handled the shopping, and bit intruders.

"You need a woman," Justin said aloud, matter–of–factly and not for the first time.

The microwave chimed, so he removed the now–steaming bowl and rummaged for a fork in the nearly empty silverware drawer. He hovered uncertainly for a moment, torn between the newspaper on the countertop and the allure of the Phillies–Rockies game, which had started ten minutes prior, and then decided to go with his gut.

"Play ball," he mumbled to himself, and made his way to the living room. He dropped into his chair, and predictably, Alyx flopped down near his feet, ready to catch any noodles he might drop.

Justin had spent most of his childhood in South Jersey, just across the Walt Whitman from Philadelphia. Over the course of his adult life, he'd relocated four times – once for the academy, twice for detail transfers, once for family–related reasons. How he had ended up a patrol cop in Sheena, Nevada was still a mystery to him. However, regardless of cultural oppression, he remained unerringly true to his boyhood team, the Fightin' Phils who had won the pennant for him back in 1980.

They were up by two when he flipped on the TV and settled back to eat his pitiful supper, which meant the Colorado crowd in attendance was already subdued. Friends and family had never described Justin as a loud–spoken individual, but apparently they'd never observed him watching sports. Barely twenty-five minutes or so into the game, he had already abandoned his half–eaten bowl of macaroni and was waving his arms angrily at the television.

"That was _clearly _foul, Terry – don't fight it, man! You coulda – now you're gonna –"

He stopped suddenly in mid–sentence, listening, but not to the TV: the police radio had crackled to life in the next room. Reluctantly, he got to his feet and jogged into the kitchen, praying that Francona didn't get ejected over nothing.

Leaning heavily against the counter, he put the radio to his lips. "Yeah, go ahead."

A pause. "Cantori?"

Leftover annoyance from the day bled into his voice, although he expended no real effort to contain it. "That would be me."

"This is Hernandez."

Justin quickly dropped his sarcasm and mechanically straightened with respect. Sherry Hernandez was the chief of Sheena police and, not to mention, the most beautiful woman on the force. She directed the majority of all police activity in the Sheena districts and answered directly to the Commissioner, the Mayor, and – when the occasion demanded – the Governor. In other words, she was well out of his reach, but Justin had always been prone to want what he couldn't have.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, Ma'am?"

She was probably going to call him in for night duty. It was inconvenient since Friday was his only night off, but at least it didn't mean he would suffer from boredom all evening. The overtime pay was decidedly a plus, but Justin immediately found himself irritably wondering where the hell Cort was. Friday was Bobby's night to cover the Cinderton district – the shift he and Cantori rotated weekly. There was a spot between 30th and 31st where the speed limit dropped abruptly from 35 to 15, and that was where the Sheena cops liked to wait.

Hernandez' voice crackled through before he could say anything else. "Sergeant, we need you – _now_. You know that abandoned house that we nabbed that thief in last week?"

Something stirred in his mind, a memory both grim and glamorous. "How could I forget?" he muttered, low enough that Hernandez couldn't hear him.

There had been a series of thefts across Sheena, mostly botched attempts, but the thief had managed to hit several big houses before Sheena police had tracked him back to his hideout: the abandoned Granford house in Newson Township, part of the Sheena district, just outside Ely. Nothing but grit–blasted fields surrounded the old house on all sides, although scraggly trees and other vegetation had grown unkempt around the edifice over the years. From his vantage point, the thief had seen the cops coming and had rigged several rather ingenious traps that had seriously injured three officers.

Hernandez continued without pause, and the static did nothing to alleviate the aggravation in her voice. "We have some psycho in there with a hostage. Every time we attempt an entrance, he tells us to get out – that there's something 'deadly' in there. Nothing specific, but it's safe to assume that he's got some type of explosive."

While she spoke, Justin hurried down the hall to the bedroom and began digging his uniform out of his closet as he listened. "Bomb squad can't do anything?"

"We can't exactly get _to _the perp – not without risking the hostage's life. We're not sure if it's homemade or something more deadly, but we need all hands on deck."

"Do we have motive?" he asked. "Any idea who he is?"

"What are you, my detective now? Just get your ass down here, Cantori."

"I'll be there as fast as I can," he said into the handheld. "Just let me get some pants on."

Hernandez laughed once – albeit without humor – and abandoned the transmission to a garbled burst of static.

With no time to waste, Justin tore off his button–up and jeans, pulling on his uniform over boxers and a t-shirt. He wrenched the top drawer of his bureau open and took out his belt with the gun holstered on it. After checking to see that the handgun was loaded and the safety was on, he replaced it in the holster and cinched the belt around his waist.

Minutes later, he was running out of the house, bidding Alyx farewell and apologizing for not being able to spend the evening with her. She'd give him hell for it later – probably lots of sloppy, guilt–inducing kisses – but that was punishment he'd simply have to endure. He somehow remembered to lock the front door behind him, and then jumped into his squad car. Burning rubber on the pavement, he left Maine Street and took Madison southwest – in order to hook up with 50, which would take him directly to Newson.

To the west, the sunset was brilliant.


	3. The Attic Corner

**Chapter 2: The Attic Corner

* * *

**Granford House  
Newson Twp, Nevada  
13 June, 1999  
1852 hrs (6:52 pm)

* * *

It was already dark by the time Justin arrived at the Granford house fifteen minutes later. Thin bands of vibrant pink left by the dying sun stretched lazily over the expanse of western horizon, all but smothered by the purple blackness of the encroaching night. The twinkling lights from nearby houses were innumerous, artificial stars on earth.

The Granford House itself stood out black against the glitter sky, slumped to one side like a man–made hill. The dilapidated building was only two stories, but somehow seemed much larger in the darkness than it had in the daylight. As of Justin's last visit, the second floor had barely been able to support its own weight, and the roof had plenty of gaping holes in it to let in the sun and the rain. The interior was completely rotted, fading beneath the years and weather, inhabited and vandalized by the homeless and the delinquent.

Justin brought the squad car to a grinding halt on the gravel across the street from the house and paused with his hand on the door handle, gazing up on the ominous ruin. There seemed to be a whole army of black, white, and navy–blue on the front lawn. Police cars created a perimeter around the house, and several officers were out in the road diverting traffic. Flashing lights lit up the night with cycling splashes of crimson and aqua, but there were no sirens now – only agitated police chatter.

Shaking himself, Justin climbed out of the squad car and jogged across the street. It was hard to differentiate between faces in the darkness, but he was able to make out Hernandez' silhouette and made a b–line for her. She was conversing with two other senior cops when Justin hurried over, and he could tell she was frustrated – both from her tone of voice and her agitated stance – and no doubt she would take it out on him.

He was no stand–alone martyr, though: Sherry Hernandez always vented on _some_one.

"Sergeant," she said crisply by way of greeting, turning to face him as he came to stand between the other two officers. Predictably, there was veiled accusation in her words. "We'd just about given up on you."

Justin had long ago learned not to feel offended, but that didn't squelch the indignation churning in his guts. "My apologies," he said, reciting the line from a mental list of scripted responses which he had accrued over two years playing Hernandez' subordinate.

The officer to his left was Vekama Sigfried, a full–blooded Russian who was severely aging, although he refused to admit it. He was successful and arrogant, but not without reason, as evidenced by his impressive career. His hair was shoulder–length, a tangle of gray straw that defied regulation, but because he had a desk and a door with his name set in the glass, he could get away with it. The mustache he religiously maintained was still partly black, but that was predominantly gray also. He rarely ever smiled and his heavy black eyebrows accentuated this point, making him appear to be in a constant state of anger.

He gestured towards the old house, offering – as usual – no words of greeting. "We've made several attempts to get in at the terrorist, Sergeant, but have been forced to desist. He keeps threatening to kill the hostage. We've got no vantage point for snipers, and no cover to use for a sneak entry. All we've got is a car – the hostage's according to registration; a Ms. Kara Hadyn – but there's nothing in there to serve immediately as ID for the perp. All we know currently is that one of our officers out on patrol noticed the car on route 50 about twenty minutes ago, swerving erratically, immediately interpreted the situation, and radioed in for backup."

As he said all this, Justin took another long look up at the old dilapidated building. There was a looming shadow cast on the second floor window, stretched and distorted because of the police lights.

"Fucking idiot," he murmured, more to himself than the others. "He could fall through at any second."

"Too much to hope for." The speaker was another senior cop – a man named Peter David. His two first names had always made Justin chuckle. "Cantori, you were the one who led the squad in to capture Stanfield, correct?"

Justin straightened with not a little pride. He himself had been the one to pin the thief – James Stanfield, father of two and former CEO of a paper company that had gone belly–up – to the floor and pronounce him under arrest. It was the brightest moment of his career to date.

"Yes, sir," he answered smartly.

David had always placed a lot of faith in him throughout the pair of years Justin had spent in Sheena. "Could you pull that stunt twice, Sergeant?" he asked.

The dawning light of comprehension was bright enough to dim the prideful glow in Justin's chest by contrast. So _that_ was why Hernandez had called him in: there were certainly enough persona on–site already and his opinion had never really meant all that much to her in the past.

An immediate response died on his tongue and he looked away to buy himself some time. If the kidnapper had a bomb, then a forced entry would be a risk not only to Justin's own life, but also to the lives of the cops in the accompanying squad. If they weren't careful, the perp would lose his cool and – if he was truly committed to not being apprehended – would light the fuse, and no one particularly cares to die with friends' lives on his or her hands.

_But hey, it's always better to go out in a blaze of glory._

Cantori nodded finally, killing a foolish grin. Adrenaline tended to make him giddy. "Yes, sir."

"Alternately, we _could_ send in a negotiator, but these two seem to think you can work some type of magic," Sigfried said brusquely. He, on the other hand, clearly did not.

Justin held up his hands, palms out. "Nothing up my sleeves."

"Let's make this happen," Hernandez snapped, cutting him short. She didn't see Peter David's smile because he immediately covered the lower half of his face with a hand. "The primary squad's waiting at the front entrance, Cantori. We'll accompany the secondary with a medic if need be. Radio if you need help."

What they were working with was standard procedure, so it made perfect sense. Yet, there was a strange sense of unease in Justin's gut – something more than nerves, something that stripped away his good humor. He had always been one to remain remarkably calm in crisis, which was primarily what made him a good police officer, but something about this situation didn't feel right. Sure, he'd never been in thrust into a scenario like this since his days at the academy and that was certainly fear–inducing, but there was something besides nervousness chewing on his insides.

For a moment, he hesitated, wanting to ask for… _something_. But what exactly, he didn't know.

_C'mon, cowboy – loosen up._

Quashing the sensation, Justin allowed one of the nearby cops to throw a Kevlar vest around his shoulders. He thought about asking some questions, but decided that he didn't need any more unnecessary information cluttering his mind at the present. Besides, he only needed basic training to pull an arrest.

He saluted his superiors briefly, then jogged across the short stretch of grass to where the B&E squad were waiting, thirty or more feet from the front entrance. They were part of a detail called S.T.A.R.S., special police who worked primarily in hostage negotiation and riot control, hand–in–hand with local police. They answered to Chief Sherry Hernandez and a home office located in New York City. All four officers were armed with MP5s and dressed in black riot gear. Lieutenant Sid Jonah's face was emotionless; Bill Ferdinand's jaw was set rigidly; Sergeant Hank Bailer and Jimmy Stanton – both of whom had served in the navy before honorable discharge – seemed genuinely calm.

_Good men – all of them._

Swallowing a sudden rush of emotion, Justin nodded sharply at them as he came to stand in front of them. True to their training, they allowed minimal responses, remaining instead silent and impressive.

"Okay, here's what we do," Justin began, fastening the straps on the Kevlar vest as he spoke. "We wait until he moves away from the window, then make our entry. The steps to the attic are in the north corner of the parlor. We take them fast and silent while he's at the window again. Objections?"

Jonah, the leader, said nothing, but Bailer raised his eyebrows, almost touching them to the brim of the helmet he wore. "A lot can go wrong, sir. There's no guarantee he'll turn away from the window long enough for us to get inside."

Justin nodded. "Trust me. He sees us standing here now, so he's gonna get suspicious that we're sending men in the back way while he's preoccupied watching is. Any second now he'll run to the back window to check anytime soon."

"And what happens when he comes back a second later and we're gone?" Bailer pressed, clearly not pleased.

"That's why we have to be fast," Justin said grimly. He didn't like it any more than Hank did. "If anyone has any better ideas, I'd be happy to hear them."

No one said anything, and then Sid Jonah pointed over their heads at the Granford House. "He's gone, Cantori."

They all turned as one, finding the window where the shadow had been seconds prior. From this angle, the glass became nearly opaque and reflective of police lights, but it was clear that the terrorist had taken the bait and was scrambling to check the back entrance while there was still time.

"Let's do this," Justin said, flashing a brief grin at the other cops to inspire confidence.

Without waiting for them, he crossed the stretch of gravel to the front door in three running strides, then mounted the sagging front steps – spreading his weight over both feet. He edged open the front door with the nose of his handgun and peered carefully inside. The entrance parlor was about twenty feet in diameter and contained nothing more than an old table, rotting with chunks missing out of it. What had once been a sofa lay overturned in the corner, shredded by moths and rodents. Across the way, a sagging doorjamb entranced the kitchen, and to the right was the set of stairs that would take them to the upper level.

Justin looked up at the mildewed ceiling, saw a shadow pass over the cracks – headed back towards the front window. _No time,_ he told himself. _Now, now, _now_!_

Pushing the door wide open, he took a bold step inside. He advanced cautiously, sweeping left and right with the Beretta. The rest of the squad quickly filed in behind him and spread out through the room. A quick sweep of the ground floor ensured their safety, so Justin began the cross to the ancient stairs –

"_I know you're in here!_"

Justin's heart leapt and he swore under his breath. He pointed his handgun at the ceiling, training the weapon on the spot where he approximated the man to be standing.

"I'll kill her!" From the sound of his voice, the speaker was definitely male, probably mid–thirties or early forties, most likely Caucasian. His words were slurred and poorly annunciated, full of fear, anger, and booze. "Get out _now_ or I'll kill her! _I'm not fucking around!_"

Justin thought: _Stoned, drunk, _and_ he has a bomb. Great. Throw in a lightning storm and we'll have a party._ But they had gained an immediate foothold: when he'd been distracted, they'd breached the crypt. He had to negotiate their exit now, not their perimeter.

A muffled scream came from upstairs, feminine in pitch, followed by the sharp sound of flesh striking flesh. And then the sobbing came – renewed, it seemed. They were the dry, almost soundless gasps of someone who has simply no energy left to fight, yet somehow continues to struggle anyway.

_Don't want to give him the chance to rough her up anymore._ Justin raised his voice as the girl screamed again. "Hold on! I just want to talk to you!"

"_Sir_!" Bailer hissed. American all the way, he'd been one of the original S.T.A.R.S. to transfer to the new Sheena detail back in '96, and by experience had learned not to negotiate with terrorists. His twin tours of duty had also taught him a thing or two about psychos.

Jonah silenced Hank with a quick motion of his hand, and Justin was grateful for the Lieutenant's support. There was simply no other alternative: they had to take a chance.

There was silence from the second floor, save for the squeal of rotting boards rubbing together. And then –

"P–put down your weapons! H–hurry up or – or I'll, I'll do it – _I swear to God, I'll do it_!"

The girl screamed in terror once more, lowering their choice of options to one.

Justin briefly considered backing out, calling in Hernandez or Sigfried's negotiator to do the talking, but then the girl's cries changed from terrified to pained and he was forced to make a decision.

– _no time._ "Okay, okay!" he shouted, and felt Hank flinch, somewhere in the shadows on his right. "Calm down! Can I come up?"

A very pregnant pause followed the question, and then: "H–how many of you are there?"

_Bullshitted us into revealing ourselves. But he's not _that _bright. _Justin cleared his throat, preparing his own bluff. "Two."

As if reading his mind, Lieutenant Jonah motioned sharply at Hank and Jimmy Stanton, and the three of them shrank back into the shadows, nearly invisible. Bill Ferdinand took a step closer to Justin, his eyes glittering in the darkness.

"_Don't you fuck with me_!" the voice from upstairs shouted, and the girl whom he had captive choked on another scream. It sounded as though the man had his arm around her throat and was cutting off her oxygen. "I'm not stupid!"

"Relax, dude! There are only two of us!" Justin edged slowly towards the stairs, tossing his handgun to Jonah for safekeeping. Simultaneously, Bill Ferdinand slung his rifle over Bailer's left shoulder before joining Justin at the foot of the steps, empty–handed, hastily stuffing his M9 beneath his flak vest.

"C–come up slowly!" the man yelled down the steps. They heard him moving away, probably to a far corner of the attic. "Leave your weapons! If I… If I f–feel _threatened_…" He left the threat implied, and there was no need for clarification.

_Here goes nothing._ Justin slowly began the climb and felt Ferdinand following behind him. He didn't like the way they creaked with each step, liked even less the way they continued to shake even when he and Bill both stopped moving.

"_Slower_!" the voice screamed, somewhere between outraged and frantic. His rapid, shallow breathing was audible even as far away as they were.

Justin poked his head up onto the second floor, took a quick survey of the area, and spotted the terrorist immediately. He stood in the far corner, back against the plaster wall beside a partially intact window. He had one arm wrapped around a girl's throat and held a gun to her temple. In the darkness, Justin couldn't tell what kind of model it was – probably something along the lines of an SIG P226 –

_Hell, all guns can kill._

Cautiously, he heaved himself up onto the second floor and raised his hands above his head in a non–threatening manner. "Here I am," he said passively, wincing as the floor quaked beneath his weight.

"W–where's the other one?" the man gasped, his face hidden in the girl's dark hair.

"Take it easy – he's right behind me," Justin replied, edging across the creaky floor.

A moment later, Ferdinand crawled up in similar fashion, somehow awkwardly out of place in his armor. He gave Justin a look that clearly bespoke of his fear, but didn't say anything aloud. Justin didn't blame him; _he_ was scared too, although the adrenaline pounding through his body effectively stifled that emotion.

"What…" the terrorist began breathlessly, thickly. "W–what are we going to talk about?"

_Just talk, _Justin told himself, clenching his fists._ Just keep him talking – keep him busy until Ferdinand locates the bomb –_

"I want you to let her go," Justin said, sinking into a crouch. Ferdinand remained at his side, but with his peripheral vision, Justin saw that Bill was already looking around carefully, discreetly. "Do you understand what I'm saying? I just want you to let her go and everything will work out. That's all I want, okay?"

"_No_!" the man shouted, backing further into the corner. "You'll kill me if I do! You don't understand –"

"Listen to him!" The girl shrieked suddenly. "He's not right!"

"Shut up, bitch!" the man spat, jamming the gun hard into her temple –

"Woah, woah!" Justin said loudly, raising his hands. "Calm down, nobody's accusing you – just… stay cool, okay? Ms. Hadyn? Sweetie, I need you to keep quiet, okay? Everything's gonna be alright. Listen, Mister, why don't you just tell me what's going on here?"

His tongue was running on autopilot now, because he couldn't think properly. His guts were screaming at him, knotting with tension. Something was seriously wrong here – something really bad.

"No, no, no…" the man stammered, dragging his hostage back further into the attic corner. "I can't, I can't – you'd kill me if you knew –"

"We won't do anything to hurt you – I swear," Justin broke in, maintaining a steady, authoritative tone, keeping the terrorist's attention on himself. "We're cops, man – we don't kill. Just let her go and come peaceably –"

"_Fuck you_!" the man screamed as he fell into the wall heavily, dragging the girl with him. "You don't know! You don't know who I am, you don't know what I've done. You don't know _what_ I am."

Justin felt the frown dragging on his face, heard again in his mind what Kara Hadyn had said: "_He's not right_."

_What the hell is going on here?_

Ferdinand looked as befuddled as Justin felt, which didn't improve the situation any, because Bill was sharp as a tack. That was part of the reason why he'd spring–boarded from patrol duty to the S.T.A.R.S. within three months of joining the Sheena detail.

"Well, why don't you just let her go and we'll talk things over?" Justin tried again. "You have my word that we won't harm you in any way if you just cooperate."

"I… I _can't_…" The man's voice had dropped to a gurgle. His breath wheezed audibly, faster and faster. "I can't."

Justin still couldn't get a good look at him. All he could see was the girl, her eyes squeezed shut in terror; hair wild and disheveled; chest heaving in fright, crushed by the powerful forearm. Police lights continued to fill the room with surreal flashes of red and blue.

"Sure you can," Justin said finally when the terrorist didn't elaborate. "What's stopping you?"

"I _told _you – you don't understand!" The man shrieked, suddenly on the verge of complete hysterics. His panic suddenly became a very tangible threat. "You don't know, you don't know! Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck_ –"

"Calm down, man – calm down," Justin said slowly, displaying his empty palms. His heart was thumping in his throat, making it difficult to speak. "Just relax and we'll get through this."

_There's something more to this – he's messed up in the head or something –_

"I… I…" The man spat strands of the girl's hair from his mouth, hugging her closer to his chest for support. The SIG was trembling violently in his hand. "It wasn't my f–fault! I… I…"

Justin frowned and shot a glance at Ferdinand. The other cop arched a clueless eyebrow in return, an action that would have seemed calm, but his gloved fists were clenched and sweat shone on his upper lip.

"What wasn't your fault?" Justin wanted to know, his curiosity piqued.

"_Everything_!" the man gasped. Wood creaked as he rocked back and forth against the wall, crushing the girl to his chest. "It wasn't _my_ idea, I… I… Just f–following orders… No idea…"

Justin was fought to keep his voice even. "What are you talking about?"

"_Umbrella_!" the man burst out savagely, as though speaking the very name disgusted him. "Fucking _Umbrella_! You have no fucking _idea _what they've been doing! And I… I didn't want any _part_ of it! I didn't know what I was doing! Please… _believe_ me, please!"

Justin tried to reply, but confusion had effectively disabled his tongue. _What the hell does __Umbrella__ have to do with anything?_

Assuming he wasn't talking about an actual umbrella intended to keep off the rain, _the _Umbrella was a respectable pharmaceutical company that manufactured vaccines, antibiotics, and prescription medications. The multi–million dollar organization had nearly a hundred facilities and research plants worldwide and held considerable influence on just about every continent, making it one of the few multi–national medicinal companies on the globe. As a matter of fact, most of the various medications that filled Justin's and Alyx' medicine cabinet were of Umbrella make. And that wasn't surprising, considering that Umbrella currently distributed one–third of the world's medicine. They had established a virtual monopoly over all pharmaceutical industries, rising to such elevated status over a period of only ten short years although they'd been in existence for more than thirty. Local papers had been full of reports on the opening stages of construction on the newest addition to the Umbrella family: a laboratory somewhere in the Appalachians, West Virginia.

_But why does that matter _now_?_

"I believe you, I believe you," Justin said quickly, wishing he had concealed his gun as Bill had instead of leaving it behind with Sid. He felt very defenseless all of a sudden. "Just let the girl go and we'll take it up with Kennedy Hall –"

Ferdinand cut in before Justin could finish. "_What are you talking about_?!" he demanded. "What the _hell_ does Umbrella have to do with anything?"

"Everything." The tone of the terrorist's voice changed suddenly, dropping to a hiss and sending a chill up Justin's spine. Hadyn sobbed, hanging helplessly in the maniac's embrace. "_Everything._"

Justin glanced at Ferdinand, found no answers or assurance in the other cop's gaze, and instead looked back at the terrorist. "Look, if you come down with us peaceably, we'll sort this whole thing out, okay? We'll talk all about Umbrella then. How's that sound to you?"

For a long moment, the terrorist didn't answer – like he was considering that as an option. And then, all he said was: "I'm… I'm just so… _hungry_…"

Justin mouth suddenly went dry, and sudden terror overrode his adrenaline courage –

And what happened next was inexplicable.

The man slackened his grip on the girl, his gun–arm falling away limply as the other arm visibly relaxed around the girl's chest. And suddenly, she was free, lurching away from her captor. The terrorist made a grab for her, but sluggishly, and she darted easily out of his reach.

_What? What just happened –?_

Falling to her hands and knees, she scrambled towards the cops and collapsed into Justin's outstretched arms. Released from his sudden sense of transfixed horror, Justin grasped her by the shoulders and gathered her in close. Suddenly he was a cop again.

He said: "It's gonna be alright, baby." She sobbed into his chest by way of response, clinging to him tightly as he turned and yelled down the stairs. "_We've got her!! _Jonah, give me a fall–back zone!"

"_Go_!" Ferdinand bellowed, interposing himself between them and the terrorist, who was recovering himself from whatever daze he'd entered. "Go now!"

And there was Jonah's voice below them, reassuring: "Moving into position!"

The man in the attic corner shambled forward a single step, unsteadily. "No! You said you… w–wouldn't _hurt_ me…" He was struggling to string the words together, as though he had never before spoken English, swaying drunkenly on the spot. "You _promised_ –"

Justin still couldn't see the man's face, since the flashing lights that came through the window only illuminated his back, throwing his face into complete shadow. "You're right, you're right – we're not going to hurt you," he said, backing away and pushing the hostage behind him. "Just come down quietly and –"

"_No_!" The terrorist lurched forward, his arms stretched out in front of him like a sleepwalker, moving as though his knees didn't want to bend –

– pointing the gun at them –

Justin acted instinctively, turning his back towards the terrorist, shielding the hostage with his body as Ferdinand made to advance –

– a dull _clunk_, behind them: the perp had_ dropped the gun_, was coming for them empty–handed –

Bill's raised tone betrayed his shock, which in turn revealed his fear. "Go, Cantori, just _go_!"

"Ssss…top," the kidnapper moaned, gurgling in his throat. Ropy saliva trailed from his mouth, falling at a sickening rate towards the floor. Maybe his brain had shut down, or maybe he was having a stroke: there could be no other explanation. "Please, sssstop…"

The girl cradled in Justin's arms screamed and buried her face in Justin's chest again, unwilling to look upon her former captor –

"Hold it right there!" Ferdinand shouted, advancing a step. He had pulled the M9 out of his belt and was holding it in front of him. Light from the window caught the barrel and gleamed along the steel edge. "Listen – _listen to me_! If you just cooperate, we're going to get you some help!"

The druggie paid no heed. He didn't seem to even hear the other cop. Instead of stopping, he shambled forward – one plodding step at a time, eyes rolling back into his head.

"Let's go, Bill!" Justin shouted. Something in his gut was screaming at him – telling him to move, move, _move_. Holding the girl tightly to him, he helped her towards the creaking stairs –

It was the moaning, gasping sigh that stopped him. Against his better judgment, he turned and looked back. Ferdinand was still brandishing the handgun at the man, backing away slowly as he covered the retreat. But the terrorist wasn't stopping, oblivious to the weapon leveled at his chest. He kept trudging towards them, hands groping in the blackness, gasping for breath, for _them_.

_Fucking zombie_, Justin thought dazedly, unable to tear his eyes away.

"Stay back!" Ferdinand screamed, panicking –

– and Justin heard himself from far away, shouting: "_Get back, Bill! __Get_ _away from him!!_"

But too late.

The terrorist grabbed the other cop by his upper arms and held him fast. Reeling away, Ferdinand pulled the trigger, twice. Fired at point–blank range, the bullets smacked wetly into the man's ribs, clearly puncturing the man's lungs. If the terrorist felt the penetration, he didn't show it, although his breathing immediately increased in frequency. He was bleeding, but only barely – as though they were just flesh wounds.

– and, with a bone chilling cry, he gathered Ferdinand in a bear hug and lowered his mouth to the cop's neck, that vulnerable strip of pink flesh just between the Kevlar vest and the bottom ridge of the riot helmet –

Justin couldn't tell what was happening, saw the scene in slow motion as he left the girl behind, shouting for Jonah, advancing on the terrorist –

– Ferdinand screaming high, long, and hair–raising: "_Holy_ _God_ – _he's _eating_ me_!!!" His shriek ended in a bubble of blood as red fluids frothed up in his mouth and spattered into the air, and suddenly he was firing wildly into the air – six, seven times before the gun fell numbly from his grasp –

Perfect fear froze Justin's blood, halting him in his tracks. He found that he could do nothing but watch as the goddamn _cannibal_ took another bite out of Ferdinand's neck. Bloody ribbons of the cop's flesh dangled like fleshy doilies from the corners of his mouth. Blood, blood, and more blood was everywhere, spraying like Old Faithful from Bill's neck, smearing quickly over the terrorist's face –

And he was _moaning_ as he chewed the bloody gristle that had been the Bill's esophagus.

_Holy shit, he's _enjoying_ himself –_

Behind him, the girl staggered against the wall. Justin heard her retching pitifully, and then the wet splat of vomit hitting the floor –

– and her hysterical sobbing was what brought him back to reality. He leapt forward.

"_Jonah!! We need backup!!_" he screamed, lunging towards Ferdinand and the terrorist. He hit them hard with his shoulder, using the strength lent him by adrenaline to rip cannibal and cop apart, hurling the former away –

– the terrorist staggered backwards, grunting –

– Justin gathered Bill in his arms, dragging him backwards to safety, unable to tear his eyes away from the terrorist as the man regained his footing. Bill's gun was too far away to grab, but there was a good–sized combat knife strapped to injured cop's left calf –

There was no time to think. Justin crashed to his knees, bearing Bill's dead weight to the floor, and tore the knife free of the Velcro straps. The terrorist was barely three feet away and reaching for them as he shuffled dully forward –

– and couldn't react as Justin lunged from a kneeling position, leading with the blade, and buried the knife to the hilt in the cannibal's forehead. The skull beneath gave far too easily, like a rotting pumpkin, and thick blood seeped from the injury. The terrorist hung in midair for a long moment, pupils quivering at the edges of his upper eyelids as Justin staggered away. And then the man fell backwards to the floor with a heavy _thump_, raising a thick cloud of dust.

Ferdinand was still on his knees, gasping, swaying dangerously. Blood was rapidly forming a pool beneath him, flowing down his ruined neck and staining his uniform black.

Justin grasped the officer by his shoulders and pulled him down into a reclining position, cradling Bill's head in his lap. It was almost impossible to see anything, because what had been his neck was now a mess of soft pink tissue. A ragged, bloody hole exposed the insides of Ferdinand's shredded trachea, and most of his throat was simply _gone _–

"_I need EMTs!!_" Justin shouted, his voice cracking. He thought he heard scrambling activity from downstairs and shouts from outside, but his ears were ringing from the gunfire.

Bill's blood–smeared lips were mouthing wordlessly, his hands grasping fistfuls of Justin's shirt. Breathing through his mouth, Justin pressed his hand against – _inside_ – the man's neck, felt the slickness of bone and gristle beneath his fingertips. He found the jugular – a pulsing, slimy worm – and pinched it tightly. Nausea crashed over him, hot and swift, and he retched painfully, but nothing came up. Breathing hard, he swallowed a mouthful of bile and looked down into Ferdinand's face.

"It's gonna be okay, pal…" he gasped, but his voice was shaking almost as badly as his hands. He felt like crying but didn't have enough oxygen in his lungs to do so.

Someone – probably Jonah – on the steps, shouting something –

That was when the cannibal's body twitched.

And he sat up.

He.

Sat.

Up.

And somehow he was struggling to his feet, with Ferdinand's knife jutting grotesquely out of his collapsed forehead, like William Tell had missed his goddamn apple. A sudden stench washed over Justin: a mixture of rotten fruit and week–old garbage, the smell of a landfill, enough to make him gag again – worse than before. Whatever this guy had been smoking hadn't mixed well –

But that was the least of his concerns. Dead men aren't supposed to get up and fucking _walk around_.

Someone from downstairs, maybe Sigfried: "Cantori! What's going on?"

"Stay back!" he shouted, struggling to drag Ferdinand backwards as the cannibal stumbled forward, the knife quivering sickeningly in his forehead. The cop scrabbled frantically, propelling them with his feet towards the steps – feet attached to legs that felt leaden, that didn't want to work –

He couldn't_ think_. His brain had stopped working as this once–human irrationality approached on stiff, arthritic legs, gurgling in its throat, leaking viscous fluid and Ferdinand's blood –

– hands on his back, and Jonah was there, grabbing fistfuls of Justin's shirt, hauling both him and Bill towards the steps. They had completely forgotten about the girl, but then she was standing behind the terrorist, now falling to her knees –

"_Here_!!" she screamed, and heaved something in their general direction. It landed on Ferdinand's chest with a heavy _thud_.

Justin looked down stupidly, numbly. Ferdinand's breath was shallow and rapid, and something in his destroyed throat rattled with each exhale, but more importantly, the terrorist's gun was sliding down Bill's heaving stomach. It was a deadly, beautiful sight just then. Moonlight gleamed off the black metal.

Without hesitating, Justin released his hold on Ferdinand's mutilated neck – jerked away as the crimson geyser erupted into his face – and grasped the SIG in two hands.

"_Stay down!_" he shouted at the girl, raising the weapon and sighting down the barrel.

He only fired twice, but somehow four booming rounds penetrated the cannibal's face, splattering black blood and brains on the wall. The terrorist staggered backwards and toppled for a second time, and this time, the floor gave way completely. The dead man plummeted the twelve feet to the parlor floor and lay there in a pile of rotten boards, unmoving. A dirty cloud lingered in the air above the hole his body had created, and the S.T.A.R.S. were shouting below –

Several people were calling his name, from downstairs and outside it seemed, but he couldn't respond. He could only breathe and he had to think to remember how to do it properly.

Sid Jonah stood over Justin in a horse stance, pointing his gun at the spot where the terrorist had stood seconds ago. The lieutenant's eyes were wide, his mouth open and moving, but no words were coming out. The girl sobbed loudly, cowering on the floor in the puddle of her own vomit.

For a long moment, Justin sat looking at her, breathing shallowly. And then, remembering Ferdinand, he quickly discarded the gun and pressed his hands into the cop's throat again.

"Get downstairs, sweetheart," he gasped at Kara Hadyn, gulping in air through his mouth – to avoid that odd stench. "It's gonna be okay."


	4. Stripped

**Chapter 3: Stripped

* * *

**Granford House  
Newson Twp, Nevada  
13 June, 1999  
1859 hrs (6:59 pm)

* * *

As Sid Jonah helped the girl to her feet, Justin felt inexplicable anger surfacing in the wake of his fear, fueled by the panic and post–adrenaline rush. "_Where the hell are the EMTs?!_" he shouted, almost screaming.

Instead of Bailer's or Stanton's voices, it was Hernandez' that replied, and immediately the commotion downstairs faded into painful silence. "Who was shooting?" she demanded angrily, and Justin could hear the agitated footsteps downstairs, trampling moldy debris beneath their heels. There were a hell of a lot of people in the parlor all of a sudden, most likely crowding around the terrorist's body.

"Dammitt," he heard her mutter under her breath. "Cantori, what the _fuck_ is going on?"

"_God_!" And that was Sigfried, sounding both repulsed and oddly amused at the same time. His voice was muffled by the floor separating them, like he was speaking into a pillow. "Fancy a clean kill, eh, Cantori?"

"Have we located the bomb?" Hernandez called sharply, expectantly.

Frustration cracked his voice, so his words came out in a wheeze: "To hell with the bomb, there _is_ no bomb! Bill's dying – _get up here_!!"

Silence, and the seconds crawled.

"One at a time on the steps," Sigfried said finally.

Thundering footsteps on the stairs, preceded by a dancing flashlight beam, and then – one by one – Hernandez came into view, followed by Sigfried and Jimmy Stanton. Hernandez was holding the flashlight, and she quickly traced the beam over the cops in the attic – Ferdinand bleeding, cradled in Justin's arms; Jonah still standing there, frozen in time – blinding Justin instantly.

Hernandez' voice rose sharply in horror, and her silhouette seemed to shiver. "Oh _God_ – what the hell happened?"

"I'll explain," Justin gasped, squinting in the light. "Let's get him downstairs first –"

Sigfried dropped into a crouch beside them, eyes glaring intently. "It might be dangerous to move him now – we'll bring the squad up here –"

"Too risky," he croaked, swiping blood from his face with a shoulder. "This floor's going to collapse at any moment – get the EMTs in here on the first floor. Someone help me move him –"

As Hernandez stepped away, raising the two–way to her lips, Jonah and Sigfried gathered Ferdinand's weight beneath them and hoisted him upright. With Justin's blood–soaked hands still at Bill's throat, they awkwardly maneuvered him towards the stairs, moving as quickly as they dared.

The girl appeared from nowhere, and before any of them could tell her to move, she had grasped Ferdinand's feet by the ankles and staggered beneath the weight she now took upon herself to carry. For a moment, they all looked at her uncertainly, and then Sigfried nodded sharply.

Saying nothing, they began the descent, carefully and slowly.

The parlor was full of police officers, silent and watchful. Hank Bailer and several EMTs were waiting with a stretcher, oxygen tank and bandages. As gently as possible, they helped lay Bill's twitching body out on the stretcher, and then allowed the EMTs to take over.

Ferdinand was still bleeding steadily, even as one of the medics gathered a mass of gauze at the lacerations in his neck. It was a good sign that his body was still producing fresh blood – that meant he was still alive to bleed out. While he could still draw breath, he had to breathe heavily to satisfy his lungs' want since the majority of the air he sucked in was escaping through his neck. And breathing so heavily only made him bleed more, faster. His eyes were wide, staring out of a face that was as white as paper, blank as death.

"It's okay, buddy," Justin murmured, giving Ferdinand's shoulder a tight, brotherly squeeze. His voice was a lot more confident than he felt inside. "You're gonna make it."

Bill didn't seem to hear him. His eyes stared straight ahead, and his hands were shaking violently.

"Shit," the first EMT said coolly, almost easily. "What happened to him?"

Sigfried and Bailer both looked sharply at Justin. They had no answers for the doctor. Lieutenant Jonah was leaning over Bailer's shoulder, jaw clenched and eyes wide and glassy. He had nothing to say either, although his silence was not bred out of accusation.

"I don't know," Justin replied a moment later, stepping back to get out of the doctor's way. His throat was uncomfortably dry and painful, like he'd been choking down sand, and his head was spinning nauseatingly. "The guy up there… he just went nuts."

"What did he do to him?" the man at Justin's left elbow wanted to know. It must have been important somehow – he wasn't just making small talk. And if he was trying, he wasn't very good at it.

Justin swallowed hard before answering. The events that had transpired so recently flashed before his eyes, confusing yet so very vivid. "He… I… The girl got away from the terrorist, I was taking her down and – and Bill tried to keep the terrorist from following, and the guy… The guy didn't have a gun – he, he, he dropped it – and…"

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "He _bit_ him. He… He was _eating _him. I don't know – I don't know what else to call it. Bill shot him like… three times, but he didn't go down. I know it's crazy, but that's… that's what happened. You have to check for infections – this guy was sick with something…"

Sigfried and one of the EMTs exchanged significant looks. Justin caught the glance, and instantly his voice hardened with anger. "_What_?" he demanded, absently accepting a rag from one of the doctors. "You don't believe me?"

The big Russian said nothing.

"I'm telling the truth!" Justin said hotly, balling his hands into fists. The trauma was affecting him. That had to be why he was so inexplicably angry –

Sigfried turned away and headed for the stairs as the EMTs raised the stretcher and quickly wheeled Ferdinand out the front door and into the night. Jonah followed them absently out of responsibility for his teammate, but he seemed to be in a daze.

How much had he actually seen?_ How much did _I_ really see?_

"Hank," Justin said suddenly, turning to Bailer, but the sergeant was following the EMTs as well, and – despite the fact that he had surely heard Justin calling – gave no sign that he had.

"Cantori, take five," Hernandez snapped, just before following Sigfried back upstairs. She was doing a remarkable job of keeping her visible anger at a minimum, especially considering how pissed she clearly was. "We'll discuss this momentarily."

Justin bit back a retort and watched her ascend to the attic. Frustrated and somehow alone – even with all the people standing around – he began vigorously toweling the blood off his hands. His mind was racing like a rat on a wheel, spinning conclusions and excuses and fucking _reasons_ why none of this made sense. No matter how unlikely the story was, the multiple gunshot wounds on the victim should be verification enough for Hernandez, and when they DNA'd the blood in the terrorist's mouth they would see that it was Ferdinand's. Besides, there had to have been other cops watching the windows from the outside. There were no good vantage points thanks to the encompassing fields, but visibility wasn't completely hindered.

_Besides, Jonah was up there and the girl saw everything… I don't see what's so hard about this._

In a sudden rush of anger, he hurled the bloody rag into the far wall, ignorant to the fact that Stanton and several officers were still watching him from across the room. Things had not gone down as planned, that was for damn sure. They weren't going to get any information out of a dead kidnapper: no motive, no confession, no explanation about why Umbrellahad been so goddamn important. No successful arrest for SPD tonight. No pats on the back for a job well done.

He planted a crimson fist on the sagging doorframe and looked out at the frenzied activity on the front lawn, trying to calm his thoughts. The fact that they'd rescued the hostage safely – certainly the major goal – was an accomplishment, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. Ferdinand's chances for survival were incredibly slim, and there were several hundred better ways the operation could have gone. They could have sneaked in a back entrance, negotiated from the lower floor or gotten hold of some tear gas or –

"You got lucky, kid," Jim Stanfield had snapped on the night of his arrest, those few short weeks beforehand, gasping as Justin dug his knee into the thief's spine. "Just beginner's luck, that's all."

And maybe he'd been right.

Justin felt more than heard the girl at his elbow, and he jumped. In the irregular light from outside, he saw that Kara Hadyn was young, a full head shorter than him, but the darkness obscured anything else characteristic about her features. Her voice sounded small and helpless when she spoke.

"Why don't they believe you?"

He gaped at her, at a loss for words. A strange desire to defend Sigfried and the other cops surfaced in his chest – camaraderie or something else, he didn't know. He couldn't exactly condemn their suspicion, yet at the same time he railed them for it.

After a moment's hesitation, he sighed, offering a helpless shrug. "I don't know," he croaked. "They… They're just…"

Just what? Scared? Angry? Confused? But whatever he was going to say refused to come out.

Behind them, the stairs creaked dangerously, and they both turned in unison to see Hernandez and Sigfried descending dutifully, the very aura of ill tidings.

Justin's heartbeat immediately doubled its pace. He couldn't remember balling his hands into fists, but found that they were now knotted tightly. Surely Hernandez would hear him out, and if not her, then David. The senior officers reach the ground, and the girl took a step closer to Justin. He could feel her breath on his neck.

The door swung open behind them, and suddenly Hank was back with one of the EMTs who had helped clean up Bill. Following them was Peter David, looking extremely grave: perhaps Bailer had given him the "real" version of what had happened.

"Come with me, sweetheart," the middle–aged doctor said to the Kara Hadyn, holding out a blanket for her like a cloak. "We want to run some trauma tests, okay?"

She hesitated, looking at Justin – as though for permission – but then allowed the EMT to drape the blanket around her shoulders and guide her out the door. And just like that, she was gone: the one person who believed. Hank joined Stanton – who was crouching beside the broken body of the terrorist – and they began conversing in low tones, imperceptible. David remained at Justin's side, but said nothing.

"Give us the room," Sigfried said sharply, and the cops surrounding them immediately began filing out onto the front lawn. He waited until everyone was gone except the four of them – plus Jimmy Stanton and Hank Bailer – and then began in a tone of voice which promised no understanding or forgiveness. In fact, he sounded almost vindictive – like he'd been saving all his anger for a special occasion.

"Cantori," he grunted, "I'm just going to speak frankly. You really fucked up here tonight."

Justin opened his mouth to protest, but Hernandez spoke before he could, looking stern. "Just listen. You endangered the life of a fellow officer killed because you attempted to negotiate in the open, without any type of leverage whatsoever. Not only that, but you risked the life of the hostage by using firearms in a close space. I didn't send you in to negotiate, dammitt – you're not a negotiator. We're going to get hell from New York about this – S.T.A.R.S. aren't supposed to die outside their chain of command. I'm sorry, Cantori, but I have to report this to the district."

She surveyed him with that authoritative gaze, and Justin thought he might have seen some form of reluctant pity there. She sighed heavily. "You know I don't want to do this, but I'm left no choice. I called you in tonight because I thought you would be an asset."

Justin felt shame sting his cheeks, but anger rendered him incapable of speaking. He already knew what was coming, and the injustice was physically painful.

"But –" he began, finding his voice.

Sigfried broke in before he could protest. "We heard two initial shots fired and ran to the house. Seconds later, it sounded like you were emptying an entire clip! Barely a minute later, before we could come to assist, four _more _shots were fired, at which point the terrorist fell through the floor." His eyes were flashing, his grimace skeptical. "I would hardly deem that type of force _necessary_. A single bullet would have sufficed, especially after one of you stabbed the poor damned bastard in the head. You know perfectly well that you could have disabled him and we could have held an interrogation."

Justin felt his own nails digging into his palms. "I did what I deemed necessary, _sir_, unless you feel that letting Bill and myself be _eaten alive_ would have been a worthy trade for some answers. Besides, Bill was the one doing all the shooting, and that's his knife – I stabbed the terrorist in the head when he attacked us, but it didn't _do _anything. That… _thing_… It – _he_ – wasn't… He wasn't _natural_. I used Bill's knife to kill him – I thought – but then he got back up again, and so I was forced to use the gun. Sid came up because I called for backup, he fired two of the shots that finally killed him. I'm not sure how much he saw, but –"

He stopped talking, even though none of them had interrupted. The looks they were giving – even Peter – were enough to effectively stop his feeble explanations.

But Hernandez spoke before he could start screaming at them. "Cantori, this isridiculous."

"_You_ –" Justin stopped himself before he could let them have it. He inhaled deeply, calming himself, and then spoke as evenly as he could manage. "Ma'am, I swear to you – I'm telling the honest truth. There was something _wrong_ with this guy – I don't know what, I can't explain it. There was nothing else I could do. He attacked us with his bare hands and _ate_ part of Ferdinand's throat. Cut him open and check his stomach."

"The part about Bill's injury is explicable," Sigfried said, his black stare accusatory. "Such a wound could have been made by a knife – like the one you stuck in the terrorist's fucking _head_."

Justin's anger was back, and he took a step towards the older man. "Now you wait just one goddamn minute –"

Peter David threw out an arm, catching Justin in the chest. "Calm down, Cantori," he said sharply, the voice of reason. He shot Sigfried a pointed glare (who was staring stonily down at Justin, a triumphant look in his eye). "No one's accusing anyone of anything right now. We just want to know the whole story."

"I've _given_ you the whole story," Justin bit out, glaring up at Sigfried, refusing to break eye contact. "That _is _the whole story. Ask the girl – ask Sid, he was there. Hank and Jimmy heard everything – they'll tell you –"

Hernandez stepped in again. "They already have. Do you mind telling me _why_ you left the rest of the squad downstairs while only you and Ferdinand went upstairs?"

Justin's frustration was only increasing. "If we had gone thundering up the steps like the goddamn cavalry, he would have killed the girl, and at that point we didn't know whether or not he had a _bomb_ –"

"So what was the 'deadly' thing, then?" Hernandez pressed, finally drawing Justin's razor gaze from Sigfried's already scarred face. "When you attempted to communicate with the terrorist, did he tell you anything at all?"

"Before you killed him?" Sigfried muttered under his breath.

Swallowing past the bitter lump of frustration in his throat, Justin shook his head slowly. "I don't know what the hell he was talking about. There's no fucking bomb. You can look. Like I told you, something wasn't _right_ about him. He…"

He hesitated, clamping down on additional suspicion, realizing that any more off–the–wall things he said would surely not turn them in favor of believing him. However, all three senior officers were watching him expectedly. He had already said too much: there was simply no letting it slide now.

Sighing, he felt his shoulders slump involuntarily. The words felt like a resignation, even before he'd spoken them. "He mentioned something about Umbrella, but I don't know what the hell that had to do with anything."

Sigfried straightened sharply, incredulous. "Umbrella? As in Umbrella Pharmaceutical?"

Justin wondered why the senior officer was so interested, and he momentarily forgot the older man's accusation. "Yeah. He said… he said that something wasn't his fault and that he was just following orders – something like that. He was probably talking about corporate espionage or something like that. He wasn't making any sense, so I figured he was just real drugged up. But I've never seen a drug that makes you attack people with your bare hands and bite their throats out."

"Cantori, we're trying to help you," Hernandez snapped, suddenly irritable. "You have to give us something so we _can_."

Justin raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, you know what? Have it your way. Like I said, ask the girl. She'll back me up. If Ferdinand makes it… _when_ Ferdinand makes it, ask him too. Once Sid calms down, talk to him. Lab can DNA the blood on the terrorist's face and they can check Bill's throat for bites. Only…"

Something else had occurred to him – something that suddenly made a lot of sense, despite the relatively low probability. Even in his own mind it sounded like a conspiracy theory, but the majority of the pieces fit, and if it smells like a skunk and looks like one…

They were waiting for him to finish.

Licking his lips, he lowered his voice and spoke quickly, afraid of being overheard. "I'm thinking that there's more to this. No, listen – you all know about Raccoon and everything – what if this guy had that sickness that they've got over there? The papers are all saying that the sick people eat each other and when the police shoot them, they keep coming –"

Sigfried held up a fist with two fingers extended boldly. Had this not been so serious a situation, Justin might have flashed him the peace sign in return. "Two things," the old man growled, his expression straddling the line between outrage and madness. "One: Raccoon has been quarantined and the situation is being controlled, not to mention the fact that Pennsylvania is entirely across the goddamn country. There's no way that the virus could have just jumped out here from there without infecting entire populations along the way, and you listen to me –"

He pulled in his middle finger and held his index very close to Justin's face. "There's no need to try and draw parallels between this and Raccoon. Do you want the public to panic just because you're trying to save your own ass?"

"No, there's no need to try and save people's lives," Justin shouted in the taller man's face, his anger boiling over. "I mean, that's not our fucking _job_ or anything –!"

"Justin, give me your badge," Hernandez said loudly, and there was no room for argument in either her tone or her glare. "I think you need to take a break from the task force for a little while. Once you've straightened out, maybe I'll consider letting you back on duty."

Her words effectively robbed him of breath, and left him suddenly hollow. For a long moment, Justin stared at her in disbelief, breathing shallowly, and then he fumbled for his wallet. Numbly, he slapped the scrap of metal into her waiting palm. And suddenly he felt empty, like he had just handed over a piece of his soul.

"Thank you," Hernandez said, but she didn't really sound grateful. Her voice softened considerably although her gaze did not. "I'm sorry, Justin, but you leave me no choice. Go home – I'll call you in the morning."

Silence.

Stanton and Bailer were watching openly. Jimmy's stupid mouth was open slightly.

Justin forced his fists open. He saluted smartly, and then shouldered past David and out the broken door without another word spoken. The air was cold outside, but he barely felt it. Instead, he only felt the stares of the police standing all around, the intrigued paramedics, and the girl – watching from the back of an ambulance.

"I still want your statement on my desk by 0900 hours tomorrow morning, Cantori," Sigfried called sharply after Justin's retreating back. "I'm writing up a full report!"

_Not that he'll consider it anything but leverage to get me off the force permanently._ Maybe it was Sigfried's goal in life – it certainly seemed like it now.

"Yeah, it'll be there," Justin muttered bitterly, to no one in particular, refusing to look back at the three officers watching his retreat. He kept his head down, shamed, confused, and frustrated.

* * *

_Shit,_ Sherry Hernandez thought, watching the squad car's receding taillights as Cantori drove off into the night. _Now we're going to get ourselves an inquiry._ Well, there hadn't been much doubt in her mind since she'd laid eyes on Bill Ferdinand.

She turned back to Sigfried, who was standing beside her, just outside the Granford house. "You don't think he's telling the truth," she accused – in spite of herself: she already knew why and didn't really need Sigfried's opinion anyway.

The big man sighed heavily with the dignified air of suffering beneath one's cross. "Desperate men tell tales – you know that. Cantori just made up this bullshit to cover his tracks."

Hernandez waved this away in annoyance. "Oh, come on, Vekama. I've known Cantori for two years now – and you have too. I don't think he'd deliberately lie about that kind of thing – he's always taken responsibility for his actions before. Hell, he's put his ass on the line as often as any of us…" She trailed away uncertainly. "But then again, his story _is_ ridiculous."

There was a strange and faraway look on Sigfried's face. He said nothing.

David coughed as he usually did before speaking. "But you understand why Justin thought of Raccoon, right? The similarities between this encounter and that virus are startlingly similar."

Hernandez pursed her lips, her thoughts so distant that she did not see the glare Sigfried shot in David's direction. "Peter, Vekama's absolutely right. We would have seen a trail of similar cases across the States before it ever reached us. Maybe it was just –"

David interrupted, something he wasn't known for. "Witnesses describe Raccoon Syndrome as similar to Legionnaire's – something like tuberculosis, only it addles the mind as well. That sounds almost exactly like what Cantori described tonight. Personally, Sherry, I wouldn't condemn his theory just because it's unlikely."

Before Sigfried could jump in, Hernandez said, "I understand that, Peter. Hell, I don't want Cantori off the force! But I'm left no choice. The fact remains that, if he wasn't telling the truth, then there's no sense in jumping to conclusions."

She thought:_ And then I'm forced to conclude that one of my better officers is a liar, possibly an addict, and not fit for active duty anymore._

Sigfried voiced his mind, taking advantage of Hernandez' momentary silence. "Peter, there haven't been any other incidents like Raccoon anywhere close to here. I think it's highly unlikely that these two are connected – especially since what happened in Pennsylvania was related to bioterrorism."

When put in perspective, it was a very remote possibility. David shrugged, perhaps to acknowledge the touché, perhaps to segue the discussion along new directions. "I'm not arguing with you, Vekama – the chances are extremely remote. But, given Justin's record, I think we need to assume him innocent until we can prove otherwise. That's the American way, Vekama."

Still, the implications of Justin's claim were tough to swallow. While Hernandez hated to admit it, she would much rather accept the unlikely fact that Justin was a liar than the implications of a horrendous disease more catastrophic than the Bubonic plague spreading across the United States.

She said: "Alright, Peter – you've made your point. But Cantori's still under suspension for being so goddamn disrespectful." She shot a pointed look at Sigfried, whose jaw muscles tightened visibly. "But for now we'll assume he was telling the truth."

After a moment of prideful reluctance, Sigfried nodded jerkily.

Satisfied, Hernandez began walking towards the line of squad cars sitting at the edge of the road, and the other two fell into step with her. The cool evening breeze was refreshing after the heat of the day; it gently ruffled her short hair.

"Talk to me about hormones," she demanded of her fellows. "Can excessive adrenaline allow you to take more punishment than your body normally would allow?"

On her left, Sigfried shrugged, which – as she had come to understand – meant that he really didn't know but was going to share his opinion anyway. "My grandfather survived the trenches at Austerlitz," he began, alluding to his Russian descent. "He didn't like to talk about it all that much, but I do recall him telling us about charging into a hail of bullets and wounded men would keep going, not realizing that they were hit."

His dark face was ponderous, absent. "I doubt any of them took shots to the head directly, however."

A sick type of dread was filling Hernandez' stomach as David said, "The papers all say that Raccoon carriers take a hell of a lot of punishment before they drop. Police empty whole clips."

Was it really possible?

Hernandez studied the ground as they walked. "Is it possible that Cantori is using?"

"No," David said automatically. "No obvious signs, no past record of substance abuse. And he's a Catholic for Christ's sakes."

"I think it should be looked into," Sigfried grunted. Perhaps he glimpsed David's exasperated expression, because he added, "But we should wait to hear all the other stories before we draw any conclusions."

Hernandez nearly laughed aloud. _That didn't stop you from accusing Justin with assaulting Bill, now did it?_ Aloud, she said: "But what if Ferdinand never talks again, I suppose that will be considered Cantori's fault?"

There was a long silence, and then Sigfried nodded in solemn confirmation. "Ferdinand was just following orders from an incompetent leader."

"I wouldn't go _that_ far, Vekama," David put in before Hernandez could. "Cantori has proven himself quite substantially in his time with us – even if has only been a handful of years. He's not SWAT material, but you have to realize that what we asked him to do tonight was pull off a miracle."

"Yeah, well, he's certainly not Jesus," the old man grunted simply. For some reason, David's defense on Cantori's behalf seemed to have perturbed Sigfried, and Hernandez was sure that there was more he wanted to say.

"What do either of you make of that Umbrella nonsense?" she asked offhandedly – before he could continue – turning to look up at the Granford House. The estate was still washed in blue and red, standing tall over the commotion.

Sigfried sighed heavily. "Are we assuming Cantori was telling the truth?"

"Goddamn it, Vekama," Hernandez groaned in exasperation, giving the old man a tired look.

He took the hint. "I don't know, Sherry. Umbrella is an upstanding company, and that's common knowledge. You know I worked for them myselffor years. I just don't see how this terrorist and the company could be related in any way, nor why bringing it up now would be important. Unless he was a former employee who made off with a lot of money or something, I don't know what the connection might be."

Hernandez readily agreed with his assessment, although something was bugging her – something besides the absurdity of the whole affair. She watched as the CSI unit began wheeling the terrorist's body out of the rotting edifice. The sheet they had thrown over him flapped as they moved. It was tented and bloody at the head: they had not removed the knife from his skull.

_It's just not _right_. There's more to this than what I'm getting. I guess we're just going to have another long investigation on our hands._

But for the time being, there was little more they could to do but pack up, declare a crime scene, and call it a night. For the time being, all Hernandez needed were several Aspirin, something good and strong to wash them down, and time to think. A good night of sleep would be nice too, but she hadn't had that luxury since her husband had left four years prior. It was tough relearning how to sleep alone after fourteen years of company.

She shook her head to clear it, then spoke to her fellows. "Alright. Let's wrap this up. Tomorrow, we'll meet with Cantori and the other officers and work out exactly what happened. I want the hostage questioned extensively." She dug in her pockets for a cigarette and lighter. "Until then, maintain that nothing unusual happened until we can be sure of something. And I don't want any press coverage of this shit."

Both Sigfried and David denied the drags she offered them. The Russian preferred Black & Mild and Peter frowned upon habits of any kind because it made him feel better about his numerous affairs.

"If wind of this gets out, it will certainly make SPD look bad," Sigfried said matter–of–factly. "And the S.T.A.R.S. don't need another shot at their reputation."

"My point exactly," Hernandez said in disgust, blowing smoke out of her nostrils. Cigarettes always helped her vent, something she desperately needed with a job like hers. "I don't need a fucking call from the Mayor."


	5. Whispers

**Chapter 4: Whispers

* * *

**Sheena County Hospital  
Sheena, Nevada  
15 June, 1999  
1304 hrs (1:04pm)

* * *

Justin Cantori straightened his uniform nervously and approached officers Sherry Hernandez and Vekama Sigfried, both of whom stood before the receptionist desk in the Sheena County Hospital.

It seemed like a farce to him to wear cop blues and stripes without the badge to validate the appearance, but it was only an active–duty suspension. He was still an officer of the law and books are always judged by their covers. And speaking of judging, his superiors' faces were – for a change – relaxed, which contrasted sharply with the grim and generally angry expressions they had dutifully worn as of late. In fact, he hadn't seen either of them smile once in almost 48 hours – not during the hostage interrogation, not during processing, not passing them in the SPD parking lot.

It was barely two days after the incident at the Granford house. For Justin, that was a time much too short to properly think things over, yet entirely too long to be restricted from active duty. During those past days, Justin had been subjected to several lectures on the parts of his senior officers, one from the captain of the Sheena S.T.A.R.S., and several good ones from himself. In losing his badge, it seemed as though he had failed to give his all, even though he knew he had done all he could.

_God _knows_ I did all I could._ Even as he entered the lobby, he felt his hands knot into fists – involuntarily, and not for the first time. Shoving concerns and frustrations to the back of his mind, Justin came to stand before the two officers and saluted.

"Afternoon," he grunted, feeling acutely the sweat on his back, and it wasn't due to the warm temperature outside. In fact, in the hospital lobby, it was downright frosty.

The two senior officers returned his salute with somewhat less rigidity, and Hernandez gestured wordlessly for Justin to begin walking in the direction of the elevators.

"Sherry filled you in, then?" Sigfried asked, his tone almost genial.

Justin nodded jerkily, refusing to look at the man. Instead, he concentrated on avoiding an elderly lady walking with a cane. "Yeah," he said. "Yes, sir."

She had. The doctors had finally deemed it safe to rouse Bill Ferdinand from his drug–induced coma, now that all surgery had been completed and he could breathe on his own again. Hernandez' intentions for gathering Justin and Sigfried that afternoon were certainly not along the lines of what one would call a "pleasure visit". There had been several interrogations already, but it seemed neither Sigfried nor Hernandez were satisfied with the answers they'd gotten. And so another discussion was going to ensue – informal due to setting, but purposeful nonetheless.

Justin might have felt better if Lieutenant Jonah had been present – or David. However, either they simply hadn't been invited to sit in on the Q&A or they had duties elsewhere keeping them from attending.

He chewed the inside of his lower lip. _So I'll be defending myself, then._

Hernandez punched the "up" button for the elevator and stepped back to wait. "The doctors will give us a more well–rounded update on his status, but from what I've been told, Bill's taken a turn for the better," she informed them. "Ms. Hadyn is still being held here for trauma–related complications, but only for another few days. I asked for her to meet with us as well."

There was a _ding_, and the elevator doors slid smoothly open before them. The three officers stepped inside, and Hernandez poked the glowing 3rd floor button. The doors shuddered closed, trapping Justin inside the small elevator with his superiors: the two people with whom he least wanted to share awkward silence tempered by Muzak. Mild claustrophobia set in, but fortunately the ride lasted no more than thirty seconds. They exited into the third floor lobby and continued on to the infirmary ward.

The sun shone brightly through the big hospital windows, illuminating the whitewashed walls and the checkered linoleum floors. Dodging around stretchers and nurses, Hernandez led the way to a large room near the end of the first hall, some sort of patient waiting room which had been vacated at her request. There was a large window beside the entrance that looked in on a large, sun–filled room, bordered by plush chairs with high backs and hard plastic arms, chaperoned by two solemn vending machines bearing only bottled water and Nature Valley granola bars.

The two patients were already inside, waiting for them.

Hernandez pushed open the door and held it for the two male officers, defying conventional rules of courtesy, but Justin and Vekama walked into the room without comment, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. Ferdinand was lying in a wheeled sickbed, eyes closed in sleep, clean bandages on his neck, an IV drip snaking from the inside of his elbow and up a similarly wheeled stand, like a clear plasma vine. There were dark shadows under his closed eyes, and his face appeared waxen, pale, and prematurely wrinkled in the sunlight, but according to the doctors he was doing much better. Kara Hadyn, the hostage, was dressed in scrubs and curled catlike in one of the waiting chairs, dark eyes alert and active. She looked up as the cops entered, anxiety conflicting with unease for control of her face.

Justin smiled at her gently, realizing for the first time just how attractive she was. He hadn't exactly had time to notice during the incident at the Granford house and hadn't seen her since then. Hadyn looked about his age, with long black hair, vibrant blue eyes, Italian olive skin, and a tattoo of a shooting star on the inside of her left wrist.

An exhausted nurse stood beside Ferdinand's bed, giving him some type of medication, and barely acknowledged the new arrivals. The wounded cop opened his eyes as the nurse gave his shoulder a gentle shake.

"Your company's here," she murmured.

Bill's eyes whizzed around the room wildly, confused – as though he was shocked to find himself in the hospital – but then he caught sight of his fellow cops and realization calmed him. Nodding to them, he mouthed a soundless "hello" and shifted to a more upright position as the nurse slapped a bandage on the spot where she had given him a needle, just seconds ago.

Sigfried had wasted no time in gathering chairs from the opposite wall into an intimate semicircle around the spot where Hadyn sat and Bill's sickbed. Far from merely attempting to be a gentlemen, he obviously just wanted to get things underway and over with. He gestured wordlessly for Hernandez and Justin to seat themselves.

As the attending nurse left the room, Justin went to sit in the far chair, between the two invalids. Before he could seat himself, however, Hadyn was on her feet and grasping the sleeve of his uniform tightly.

"I didn't get to properly thank you for saving my life," she said, eyes glittering with sudden tears. He really was a lot taller than she was, but by grabbing another fistful of his uniform, she got him to bend down and kissed him on the mouth. She played her needle tongue gently over his lips and beyond, exploring his mouth with hers.

Justin finally pulled away, his face burning. He caught a glimpse of Sigfried shaking his head and hiding his eyes behind a hand. Hernandez had already seated herself, and she said loudly, "Keep your pants on, Cantori."

The girl merely offered a shaky smile, dashed tears from her cheeks, and curled back up in her chair, suddenly unable to look at Justin. He, in contrast, suddenly could not look away. His mouth seemed to be burning, and her taste lingered on his tongue.

_What the hell was that?_

Sigfried cleared his throat pointedly and then spoke up, bringing their attention back to the present. "Bill, I can't tell you how good it is to see you awake. We all feared the worst. I'm assuming you're at least _starting_ to feel better."

He was a horrible diplomat. Harsh fact might have sounded better than this fake benevolence and awkward words. For his part, Ferdinand nodded slowly, mutely, folding hands about his knees, not meeting any of their gazes.

Justin felt guilt clawing at his mind and his guts, a two–pronged attack – like Joshua at the battle of Ai. Sickeningly, he wondered if Bill had tried to speak when he'd first awoken, maybe just to ask the nurse for water, only to find that he had been unable to even manage a whisper – just the feeble hiss of air escaping his lips. Panic must have filled Bill's heart, a senseless, blinding fear induced by utter helplessness as the attending surgeon had informed him in some vain sham of a sympathetic tone that it had been necessary to remove what had been left of his vocal chords.

Ferdinand shrugged in response to Sigfried's interrogative statement, waggling a hand in mid–air to inform them that he was "so–so". Hernandez had always been one to rain on people's picnics, but she couldn't seem to speak at the moment. In fact, there was a tick working in her temple, as though her jaw was clenched painfully.

"You will be awarded for bravery and service, there's no question," Sigfried continued. Some of his awful cheeriness had faded back into his usual gruff mannerisms. "I only hope that _other_ officers will learn from your example."

He didn't need to mention names. The intent was obviously implied, and Bill's face was suddenly flushed. Justin could feel Sigfried's pointed stare on the side of his face, but pretended he couldn't. He didn't say anything out loud, but his left fist had clenched in his lap.

_Bastard. Will he ever get off my back?_

Hernandez cleared her throat, crossing her legs. "To business, then. We called this unofficial meeting to briefly discuss exactly what happened in the Granford House on the night of the thirteenth. I know neither of you probably wants to rehash the details again, but it will be easier if we just get it over with." She leaned forward slightly, fixing them all with a stern, brown–eyed gaze. "I want to hear everyone's story, including yours again, Justin."

Justin merely nodded, pushing away the frustration. It wouldn't do well to lose his temper now – it certainly wouldn't get him back on the force, that was for sure. He took comfort in the fact that, although they weren't accepting the truth for what it is, the autopsy on the terrorist's had been slotted for the day prior and the results would be in very soon – if they weren't already.

Hadyn was frowning, looking from Hernandez to Justin and then back again. "You wouldn't believe him at the house," she said slowly, bluntly honest. "Why?"

Sigfried coughed, drawing her attention to himself. "Ms. Hadyn, the man who abducted you. Did he act… er… _strangely_ while he had custody of you?"

Hadyn took a deep, calming breath. Her eyes were full of tears again, a mixture of anger and fear and brokenness. "I… Yes. I don't know – I, I think that he might have been crazy."

"Most terrorists are." Sigfried leaned forward, staring intently into the girl's wide eyes. "Tell us what happened. Exactly."

She took a deep breath. "I was on my way home from work. It was dark, it was late, and I wanted to get home, so I was speeding. I was only a mile out of Sheena when a man stepped out into the road in front of my car. I'm still not sure if I hit him or not, but I swerved to get out of the way – nearly flipped my fucking car – and when I came to a stop, I saw him lying in the middle of the road…"

Hadyn swallowed hard, looking down at the floor. Her voice was trembling – almost as badly as her hands. "Obviously, I got out to see if he was okay – I couldn't just leave him there. But when I got close, he – he had a gun. He was just faking. He made me get back in the car and drive… I took him to that house because that's where he wanted to go and he dragged me upstairs. He was pissed at me because a cop had followed us there – probably because I was swerving."

"Yes, Officer Ludy mentioned erratic driving in his report," Sigfried said, breaking in. "And we have impounded your car for obvious reasons. You will receive notification when it will be released."

"Can you tell us anything about your kidnapper?" Hernandez asked. "Did he say anything to you? Did he _tell_ you anything? Like, perhaps, where he had come from?"

She took a long moment to think, hugging arms tightly around her belly as though she was cold. "He… he only said something bad was going to happen… And, he wanted help stopping it. He said _I_ had to help him because no one else would." She looked up at Sigfried, then found Justin's gaze and held it. "He also said something about Umbrella."

Justin licked his lips. There was still no obvious connection, although it wasn't necessarily hard to believe that the kidnapper had somehow been affiliated with Umbrella. He'd been an employee perhaps, or maybe had been trying to sue the company for unwanted medicinal side–effects, or it could even have had something with corporate espionage.

Sigfried's brows knitted. "Umbrella again," he muttered, intrigued. "What did he say about Umbrella exactly?"

Hadyn frowned, distracted by Sigfried's seemingly trivial interest. "I can't say. Mainly he was just muttering under his breath and I could only hear a few words here and there. I think… He just kept blaming them for something. I think maybe he'd gotten sick from something he got from them – he smelled really bad and couldn't stop shaking, that's for sure."

"Well that would make sense," Sigfried said readily, ducking his head in a brief nod. "I can't see any other alternative."

"Anything is possible, Vekama," Hernandez pointed out. Somehow, she seemed to be addressing Justin's unspoken thoughts as well.

"Of course," the Russian agreed, maybe a little too readily. "I'm not insinuating that the company is _innocent_ – they have had their fair share of scandals after all, and their funding _has_ come from _every_where, but…" He heaved a sigh, forcibly redirecting himself. "Alright, that's not important right now. Before we go, Ms. Hadyn, I want to discuss Officer Ferdinand's injury. DNA analysis does confirm what Officer Cantori was saying about the kidnapper's cannibalistic attack, although we have no eyewitness report save those of Cantori himself and a S.T.A.R.S. officer, Lieutenant Jonah. Tell us again what exactly happened on the night of the 13th in the Granford Estate."

Silence lapsed. All attention in the room was directed upon Kara Hadyn, who was now rocking back and forth in her seat, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She took in a deep, ragged breath, and Justin swallowed hard, feeling the temperature in the room drop several degrees.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but tears still escaped from beneath her eyelids and streamed down her cheeks. "I'll tell you what happened. I'll fucking tell you. He… my kidnapper… he _bit_ the officer… I… I was behind Officer Cantori, and I looked up and saw the guy _chewing_, and – and _groaning_, like he was… like he was _cumming_ or, or…"

Hadyn finally opened her eyes and now they were dark with fear and revulsion – haunted and almost crazed. "And I knew… I knew right away. I've seen dogs eating dead things. There was that same… animal need. He was… _eating_ Officer Ferdinand. And he was _enjoying _it. And, and, there was… _so_ much blood – _everywhere_."

Justin's throat was inexplicably tight, and he realized that he was gripping the arm of his chair tightly and sweating. Bill was gripping the rail of his sickbed tightly, tightly enough that his arm was trembling.

Sigfried opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Hernandez, too, seemed incapable of speaking. Justin glanced over at the girl again. The shadow of fear had not left her glassy eyes, and although she met his gaze, it seemed as though she couldn't really see him.

Sigfried finally leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over one knee. "So let me get this straight," he said slowly, his tone of voice skeptical, yet uneasy. "This druggie – for whom we have no motive or history as of yet – tossed aside the gun he'd been carrying and attacked with his bare hands? He definitely used his teeth to do _that_ to Bill Ferdinand?"

The girl glanced over at the cop in the bed next to her – not for confirmation, but support. Bill nodded almost mechanically, and she turned slowly back to Sigfried.

"Yeah," she said, blowing out a calming sigh. "I _saw_ it. I…" She looked down at her hands. "These past days… I thought maybe I was going crazy. I couldn't tell anyone, because… because I didn't know what they would think, but… But I'm not crazy – I'm not. I definitely _saw _it."

Sigfried shook his head, his gray locks dancing about his shoulders. He had gone pale. "But –"

"As for right now, we're just going to have to accept their story," Hernandez cut in sharply. "Vekama, we have three eyewitnesses here, and all of them are in complete agreement over what happened – that means that it must be true, however unbelievable. For now, we need to get a team back over to the scene of the crime and do some sniffing around."

Sigfried looked like he wanted to argue, but then nodded. "I'll take Lieutenant Jonah and get some more details from him."

The CSI squad had most likely been through the crime scene already, although it was also plausible that Hernandez might have put them on hold while the details were being sorted. Sid Jonah was one of the best minds on the SPD and S.T.A.R.S. rosters, and he had good observation skills – it was no wonder Sigfried wanted him to come along. Justin almost volunteered himself, but then remembered why it was that there was no extra weight in his back pocket or on his chest. Grimacing involuntarily, he said nothing.

Hernandez turned to Hadyn. "Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Hadyn. I am sorry to inconvenience you."

Hadyn tried to smile but failed. "I'm happy to help."

The officers got to their feet. As Hernandez and Sigfried crossed to the door, Justin stepped closer to the bed. He placed a comforting hand on Ferdinand's shoulder. "I owe you an apology, Bill. I – there's nothing I can really say that will make up for this… I'll do anything I can possibly do to help you out –"

Ferdinand shook his head sharply, then patted himself on the chest with a palm. _My fault_, he mouthed. He was crying.

Justin felt his throat tighten again, and his vision was suddenly blurry. "No," he croaked, squeezing the other cop's shoulder tightly. "No, Bill – I shouldn't have attempted to negotiate. That or I should have just gone up myself. It was _my_ fault –"

Ferdinand shook his head again, more vehemently. It seemed that he was channeling his grief into self–anger. He was mouthing something, hissing in his throat as he vainly tried to speak – as though desperately praying for some miracle to occur.

_I panicked,_ he was trying to say. _I panicked._

"Bill…" But whatever Justin was going to say, it suddenly was gone, stolen from his tongue as though he was as mute as the man lying in the bed below him. And it was better that way: grief and repentance are often verbally incommunicable, but raw emotion has a beautiful way of clearly translating each.

Justin stood over his fellow officer for a moment longer, holding Bill's gaze intently, and then finally turned away. Pausing only to give the girl a wordless farewell nod, he left the room and didn't look back. Alone, he somehow found his way back to the elevator and down to the hospital parking lot, trying futilely to dam up the tears in his eyes, desperate not to feel like such a goddamn failure.


	6. The Rat

**Chapter 5: The Rat

* * *

**Granford House  
Newson Twp, Nevada  
15 June, 1999  
1634 hrs (3:34pm)**

* * *

**

"What exactly are we looking for?" Sid Jonah asked as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

Vekama Sigfried shrugged almost noncommittally. "Anything. The CSI team never got the go–ahead, so everything is just as it was the night of the 13th."

_Well, that's convenient_, Jonah thought. His mind had always been brutally sarcastic, but thankfully there had always existed an involuntary disconnect between what he was thinking and his tongue. It had kept him out of trouble for years.

The two officers crossed the dusty front lawn towards the lopsided steps, squinting in the blinding afternoon sun. Jonah gently pushed the mildewed front door open and held the yellow caution tape aloft for Sigfried to pass beneath, and then followed suit. They entered the large, empty room and looked around slowly, somehow transfixed by the solitude. It was amazing how the house wasn't at all frightening or even imposing in the broad sunlight.

_It's almost cozy,_ Jonah thought to himself, turning on the spot to take in the walls still faintly reminiscent of wallpaper. _Reminds me of the Boxcar Children._ He was exceptionally familiar with those particular stories because his eight–year–old daughter was currently spending all of her spare time reading through that seemingly endless series of books.

Unfortunately – according to police records – the history of the Granford House had not been so rosy. The house itself had been built in the late 1880s and had been passed down in the family for generations. The last surviving Granford – a single, heirless gentleman – had died of a heart attack twenty or so odd years back, and ever since then the place had been unoccupied – thanks in part to Newson Township's outrageous property taxes, and not to mention the fact that an ancient oil drum had been moldering beneath the backyard topsoil for sixty or seventy years. The walls and ceiling were surely crawling with asbestos to boot, and the foundation was no longer sturdy. The house was simply too old and costly even to be a fixer–upper – even while its last owner had still inhabited its four walls – and so it had remained vacant for two decades ever since his death.

Except, of course, for two nights in the recent past.

Sigfried abruptly turned to Jonah, shattering the temporary stillness. "Right. You take top floor, I'll look around down here. Give a shout if you find anything. We'll pack up in an hour."

Jonah nodded wordlessly and slowly mounted the quaking steps – carefully, so as not to cause more floorboards to cave in. His last vision of Sigfried was of the older man kneeling by the chalk outline of the dead perpetrator's body, and then the rotten wood of the second floor eclipsed the old Russian from view.

Jonah carefully hauled himself up onto the floor and cautiously got to his feet. Sunlight poured in through the grimy windows at opposite ends of the large attic. It was strange how different the place could look in broad daylight. It was almost… _charming_.

And yet, as he stood there, a shade of fear clenched his heart as he saw Bill Ferdinand –

– _struggling, screaming, as the tall man tore flesh out of Bill's neck, jerking his head like a wild animal to rip a tendon free –_

– _Cantori charging, hitting into the pair and knocking them apart –_

Jonah gave himself a shake and took a deep, steadying breath. The sun returned to the room, and he found himself unclenching his fists, working his jaw, sweating. He still had no idea exactly what had transpired that evening barely two nights ago, aside from the fact that Cantori had been suspended over something about drug abuse. It had been a hot topic of conversation amongst the Bravo S.T.A.R.S. – Jonah's detail – full of biases and opinions from men and women who had not even been near the Granford house on the night of the 13th.

Jonah shook his head in disgust, and not for the first time. Cantori might have been one of those pious assholes, but he was a good man and a better officer. There was no possibility that he could have been using.

_And on top of that, I know what I saw. They kicked him out because he told them the truth._

It was fucked up, but Jonah had bitten his tongue when he'd found out, partly for selfish reasons but also because he had a noble streak. After all, how could he help Cantori if he, Jonah, got suspended too? Sigfried had hinted that he would be requesting a full written statement soon, but had not actually done so yet. Well, that was fine with Jonah – the longer, the better. Maybe he wouldn't have to testify at all. Besides, Bill wouldn't press charges – not against Cantori. The pair had always been friendly if not friends. They were men of similar motivation, background, and morals.

Jonah looked around the room, somehow lost to the world. Justin was a nice guy, honest and smart, and Bill was too. They had always seen eye–to–eye, a fact in and of itself that had initially convinced Jonah that there would be no hearing, no trial, no case. The incident was still fuzzy, but details would be worked out or glossed over eventually. Cantori would get his badge back, Bill would be honorably discharged, and the rest of Hernandez' task force would go on doing what it always had: preserving the peace, biding the heat, and taking their biannual trips down to Vegas as an entire detail.

_So it all boils down to where the investigation leads. But that hinges on whether or not we find anything here._

His pattern of thought had returned him to the present. He suddenly found himself again, still on the second floor of the Granford House, just where his thoughts had left him. And suddenly, there was a renewed vigor in his gut. He had initially been reluctant to return to the scene of the crime – especially when a CSI team could have gone in his stead – but now there was motivation.

_To pull Cantori's ass out of the fire._

He owed Justin one, anyway.

Jonah started over to the corner where the terrorist had held the girl hostage. He skirted the deep brown stains on the wood that were Ferdinand's blood and the sagging, gaping hole in the floor nearby, instead making a b–line for a large black box that he had not noticed the night of the incident. As he drew near, he realized that it was an old packing trunk. Flakes of paint littered the rotting planks, and the leather straps binding the lid to the box had come detached, cracking and curling with age. On top was a thick manila folder that certainly had not resided in the attic corner as long as the trunk had, and next to it was a grimy–looking bottle that had no label.

Jonah picked up the bottle first and cautiously sniffed at the remainder of its contents; he immediately reeled back in disgust. He had never been a drinking man, but he immediately recognized the scent of straight whiskey.

_Maybe he __was_ _just drunk,_ he thought automatically, but the excuse rang hollow in his mind. That wasn't it – something else had been wrong. He set the bottle down and instead looked at the cover of the manila folder, thinking hard as he stared at the symbol stamped in faded ink on its surface.

_That's… Isn't that the Umbrella trademark? What the fuck does Umbrella have to do with anything?_

Incredulity twisted his face into a frown, and he stared at the folder in confusion, tucking a lock of blond hair behind his ear. If he recalled correctly, his wife Genine had a distant cousin who had worked for Umbrella Pharmaceutical in Pennsylvania, but he had been killed in Raccoon either during the epidemic or the fires. The authorities still had not identified his body, but Genine and the rest of her family suffered no hope that he would be found alive.

Sucking on his teeth, Jonah briefly considered calling Sigfried upstairs, but then decided it would be better not to bother the senior officer with his find – not yet, especially if this proved to be nothing more than a recycled folder containing an expired passport, a forged birth certificate, and a stolen driver's license.

_At least then we'd know who the guy was pretending to be, maybe where he came from._ It wouldn't exactly be what they were looking for, but it would be _something_.

Almost reluctantly, Jonah crouched beside the trunk and pulled the folder closer to him. Slowly, he opened it, and found himself looking down at the photo I.D. of a skinny, wasted–looking man with deep lines under his eyes and the purple shade of stubble on his face. Jonah had not seen the terrorist clearly on the night of the 13th – especially considering that the man's face had been coated in Bill's blood – but he had a nagging suspicion that he was looking at the same man right now. Or, at least, the relatively sane person he had once been.

His stomach clenched with memory–inspired hate.

_Bastard. So he worked for Umbrella?_ That seemed obvious: it wasan Umbrella–issued I.D., stamped with a serial number and their holographic logo, but things weren't adding up. Jonah studied the picture with an increasing sense of unease filling his gut.

_An employee. Maybe he was some type of financial accountant._

He glanced over the I.D. page briefly, found the information to be useless to his musings, and instead flipped the page over. The next sheet was covered in Greek–esque medical jargon, but it had several color photographs attached with a paperclip, and these were extraordinary –

Blinking, Jonah unconsciously raised a gloved hand to his mouth, gazing in horror at a six–by–eight glossy of what looked to be…

_Man–sized lizards?_

The things didn't seem to have any necks, and they were standing upright like snout–less, neck–less alligators, built like Hollywood Hogan. Scaled, reptilian body; arms long enough to drag on the ground ended in massive hands full of talons as long as Jonah's arm –

His hand was trembling. _What _is_ this?_

He turned to the next photograph, which captured a glass test tube like the kind they froze people in. Inside the tube was a… _thing_. It was relatively indistinct, but Jonah could immediately tell that although it was humanoid, the thing was _massive –_ nude and apparently sexless, with blue–tinted flesh. The thing's lips had been raggedly cut away from its face, leaving unhealthy gums and blocky teeth perpetually bared in a ferocious grin, and its eyes seemed to be closed, suggesting that it was in some state of stasis or maybe it was dead. A five–foot–long maw of talons composed the monster's right hand – deadlier in appearance than the lizards' in the previous photograph, and there was an enormous bloody tumor jutting out of its chest, situated directly over its heart. Maybe that was why it was in the tube – maybe it had some highly infectious cancer.

It took Jonah several tense seconds before he realized that the growth thing _was_ the creature's heart.

Breathing shallowly, he turned the photo over and saw a strange mathematical formula and then, written beneath in quotation marks, the single word "_Tyrant_". In spite of himself, he turned the photo back over to look at the horrifying image once again, and found that he could not tear his eyes away.

_Goddamn. Umbrella's gotten its hands into things that it shouldn't have. Do _they_ even know what it is?_

Maybe it was something like Area 51. _Little man with a great big head splattered down from heaven,_ as Don Henley had put it. Jonah had always been skeptical when it came to discussions of life on other planets, but looking at these mutated things the concept of extra–terrestrial life came back to him again – somehow a plausible possibility in context.

_No, no – that's impossible._

His mind spinning sickeningly, Jonah frantically flipped a few more pages and came across a sheet that was a photocopy of a hand–written note. It appeared to be part of a letter, but it was not dated.

* * *

_The progress report you requested has been well over–due for some time, so – in the midst of all the chaos in Raccoon, I take it upon myself to jot down these few notes for you on the G–Virus, per your request. You will forgive me for the sparse details: I cannot be immensely detailed, as I'm sure you understand. Besides, it is not safe to remain stationary for long._

_The G–Program has been deemed "complete" by my research ward. We have injected Host #1 with several additional viral compounds to test for variables. As of now, these stimulants have allowed Host #1 to react approximately 27 percent faster than Hosts #'s 2 and 3, and 13 percent faster than normal human reflexes, bordering it on pre–cognition. Host #1 surpasses the Tyrant by a significant quota, although there are several kinks we have yet to work out of the prototype, particularly in terns if amplification. The biggest problem remains finding a completely suitable host._

_As you know from my last report, I was unable to recover any samples of Tyrant tissue from Raccoon due to circumstances beyond my control, but as of my return to HQ, I have already gotten the research on the G–Virus underway again. It will not be long before we reclaim what we have lost – what Ms. Wong failed to procure._

_As for the __**new**__ project, that is proceeding well, if somewhat behind schedule. We already have one prototype ready for testing, and this has been given to Fitzroy for safekeeping. Let it suffice to say that this new prototype works in much the same way as the original T–Virus, but will stimulate nerve conduction in the hosts, possibly raising the carrier's agility and stamina. Come July of next year, we will begin full testing on subjects._

_It is unfortunate that our research in Raccoon had to end so abruptly, but the spill from the Spencer Estate got into the water and infected the residents of Raccoon. We couldn't risk discovery, so we were forced to take drastic measures. We are currently still in the process of secreting the remainder of White Umbrella research from the Raccoon Valley. I have returned there and am currently working discreetly with the HazMat teams to recover anything potentially incriminating._

_There is no time now for more in–depth details. Let it suffice to say that everything is under control, and our affairs in Raccoon are almost settled. I will be in contact with you soon – in person._

_Duty and honor._

_Sincerely, A. Wesker  
__Consultant Researcher  
__White Umbrella_

* * *

And so here it was.

In plain black and white, a letter containing what was as good as a confession. Umbrella personnel were the ones responsible for the epidemic in the Raccoon Valley in Pennsylvania, not to mention the fires and countless additional deaths. This man, "A. Wesker" – whoever the hell he was – was working on cover–up. Maybe he was still in Raccoon now, cleaning up the mess Umbrella had made.

_This isn't possible._

Jonah felt nauseas, dizzy, and yet excited. He seemed beyond rational thought. The possibility of a company like Umbrella – which had indeed seen its share of scandals, although none of this magnitude – was in any way responsible for a _plague_ was staggering.

Maybe it had been an accident. It sounded like it was, but Umbrella had genetically engineered the virus – several, according to the letter. A "T–Virus", they called it. What exactly was it – a true virus or a bacterial infection? They had contained it, discovered it, maybe even _created_ it. Apparently Umbrella had a secret bioweapons division hidden away from the public – _White _Umbrella? From the sound of the letter, the plague had just _escaped_, so perhaps Umbrella could not control their creation – maybe it was just too contagious.

Jonah furrowed his brow. There was no way that it had been just an accident. Not if 8000 people had died as a result. And if the company could create monsters such as were depicted in the photographs…

Was it humane? And how long had they kept this research from the government? Were its intentions for chemical weapon warfare? And if they could do all this, then what _more_ could they accomplish?

Jonah had never been interested in chemistry and had only barely passed in highschool, so the idea that a group of scientists – no matter _how_ intelligent – could engineer a virus, alter and perfect it, seemed almost ludicrous. Yet, it somehow made perfect sense.

_And that kidnapper the other night… Maybe – maybe he was infected with this same virus?_

Well, he couldn't have come all the way from Raccoon, because it was too far – that meant one of two things. One, that the disease was spreading, or – two – that Umbrella had _more_ of the virus stored somewhere, maybe even close by.

Jonah, like many people he knew, had stopped reading the Raccoon reports a few months ago, by the time the death toll had reached well over eight thousand. The papers had started becoming more and more depressing as more details were revealed, and although he hadn't exactly lost interest in the plague, Jonah had lost the will to follow the steady decline of a once–impressive population. Now, he thought back to all those countless articles and snippets he had perused, and although he couldn't remember all of what he had read about the epidemic, it definitely sounded similar to what was in this letter.

Distractedly, Jonah flipped back through the pages and photographs and found that first page – with the attached picture of the terrorist. A former Umbrella employee running from what his corporation had become, infected by what he had helped create. It was more than probable: now that Jonah thought about it, it seemed almost likely.

_Umbrella,_ Jonah thought. _Behind everything that's been blamed on terrorists. No way, not in a million goddamn years._

The logical side of his reasoning put up a valiant defense, which – under any other circumstances – might have held sway. After all, the photographs could be just computer–engineered hoaxes. He himself could probably have come up with something just as good with _Photoshop_. But the evidence was undeniable, and everything just _fit_. He swallowed hard, something like resolution pounding into him with each beat of his heart. If this was indeed the truth he was holding in his hands, then the news needed to get out fast.

_And we need to find some type of cure before anyone else gets infected._

Jonah stood up abruptly, hurriedly tucking all the papers back into the folder. His heart was pounding and his hands were shaking.

"Vekama!" he shouted, stumbling over to the steps and climbing down as quickly as he safely could. "_Vekama!_"

The older man met him at the foot of the ladder, his dark eyes flashing with excitement. "What is it? Did you find something?"

Jonah thrust the thick folder into the older man's hands without saying a word. Words were unnecessary, but he couldn't have spoken any anyway: he was completely out of breath.

Sigfried's eyes widened considerably when he saw the logo stamped on the front of the folder. He looked up at Jonah, horrified, and then opened the folder. He rifled through it, his jaw clenching harder and harder as he saw the photographs, and then the letter. After reading the first few paragraphs of the memo, he snapped the folder shut.

"We need to get the word out," Jonah gasped out before Sigfried could say anything.

The other cop stared down at the stamped symbol, working his jaw. Then, he looked up at Jonah, a strange look on his face. "What did you read?" he asked.

The question was odd. To Jonah, it seemed irrelevant.

"Enough," he replied, fixing his superior with an almost questioning look. "It was all Umbrella – it _is_ all Umbrella. Cantori was right – the perp must have known something, or he –"

Sigfried held up a hand, stopping Jonah cold. The old man looked over his shoulder, as though expecting to find an eavesdropper, and then stepped closer to Sid.

"Listen to me, Jonah – listen." His voice had dropped to a whispering growl, like a hacksaw on a tree branch. "You need to forget about what you read here – just pretend you never heard anything about this –"

An echoing ring had developed in Jonah's ears all of a sudden, so that Sigfried's words somehow were muted – as though they were conversing through a wall. Now, all he could hear was his own heart, which he also felt pummeling the inside of his throat.

He couldn't respond, so Sigfried continued. "You and I could get into a lot of trouble if anyone finds out about this," the old cop hissed, glancing nervously towards the front door again. "It would be best if we destroyed this now and –" pointedly "– _forgot all about it_."

Jonah had found his voice, but not the words. His mouth was inexplicably dry; his tongue seemed to be too thick to speak clearly. "But, this… This is the truth – about everything –"

And suddenly, it hit him – the _real_ truth, the reason behind it all, and the primary thing that clued him in was how Sigfried's hand had dropped to the butt of his handgun and he was now taking a careful step backward –

"_You_."

Jonah had always been one of the quickest draws on the Sheena force. He had pulled his gun before Sigfried could even wrap his cold, traitorous fingers around the handle of his own 9mm and was pointing it directly at the old Russian's face.

"Umbrella bought you," Jonah heard himself say. His head was still spinning, and this new knowledge was almost crushing him with disbelief. "You're working cover–up!"

_Like that goddamn A. Wesker –_

Sigfried had raised his hands in the air, the left still clutching the evidence. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sid – calm down, put the gun away and we'll talk this over –"

"I'm not talking to a traitor," Jonah almost shouted, and was disgusted to hear his voice crack weakly. "You're in their pocket – you've known all along but you didn't do a fucking _thing_ –"

"Jonah, listen to me," Sigfried shouted over him, and despite his raised tone, he still sounded immensely calm, a quality that defied the weapon aimed at his head. "Put the gun down – I can explain everything –"

Jonah was angry now. A righteous type of fury seized him, shook him vigorously, made him act without thinking. He smashed the butt end of his handgun into Sigfried's forehead, dropping the old man to the rotting floor –

Jonah dove after the senior cop to the floor, not to finish off the traitor, but to snatch up the papers which were sliding from the folder and scattering on the floor –

Sigfried hit the rotting planks heavily, rolled over and struggled to rise, shouting curses in Jonah's direction –

– but Sid barely heard as he scrabbled on the floor, down on all fours, grabbing as many papers as he could –

And then Sigfried had grabbed him by the leg, throwing his entire weight on the limb and effectively rooting Jonah to the spot. The old man was breathing hard, and his forehead was a spectacular scarlet bulge where Jonah had struck –

"You can't win," the old man snarled, his dark eyes fierce and demented –

Jonah made a lunge, but failed to escape the other cop's surprisingly strong hold. He crashed painfully to his elbows but managed to gather the crumpled folder to his chest, to keep the papers from scattering again –

"You don't even know the whole story," Sigfried gasped, speaking from the region somewhere around Jonah's ankles. "You don't know what even happened the other night – you only saw part of it – you don't know what you're buying into –"

Well, Jonah had certainly seen enough now. Anger and pure fear leant him the strength he needed, and with a forceful heave, Jonah wrenched his leg free from the old man's grasp, staggering to his feet and stumbling towards the door –

– Sigfried shouting something about foolishness –

But Jonah had hit the door with his shoulder, tripping and falling into it – through it and the police tape – and into the blazing sun of the late afternoon. Wheezing, he staggered across the short expanse of dirty gravel towards his squad car, holding that precious folder tight in both hands –

A _bang_ as the door behind him was thrown open, striking the opposite wall, and there were heavy footsteps as Sigfried followed –

But Jonah was already dropping into the driver's seat of his cruiser, slamming the door and turning the ignition –

He sent clouds of dirt and gravel into the air as he rocketed off the overgrown driveway and onto the highway, back towards Sheena. In the rearview mirror, he could see the silhouette of Vekama Sigfried standing in the middle of the road amidst the cloud of dust, watching him depart.

But then he had gone around the bend, leaving the traitor standing alone, out of sight.

Jonah felt no relief: Vekama had a car too and it wouldn't be long before he followed, maybe even tracked Jonah back to his house. He couldn't go back there – Genine and Stacy were home, and he couldn't let Vekama get to them. But it wouldn't make much of a difference _where_ Jonah went – that fucking rat could easily get information from the Sheena Police database or the S.T.A.R.S. office in New York and no one would suspect a thing.

Jonah swore loudly, the fear constricting his heart. Either way, he still couldn't go home. He would just have to trust God to protect his girls while he was away. He could lie low for a while and somehow get this packet to someone high–up, maybe the mayor or even a Fed – and soon.

_But where can I go for now?_

Suddenly, it hit him, and he stepped on the gas, resolved and more determined than ever. He sped back towards Sheena, towards the one man who would believe him – towards the one man who _could_.


	7. Escape

**Chapter 6: Escape

* * *

**27b Main Street  
Sheena, Nevada  
15 June, 1999  
2123 hrs (9:23pm)**

* * *

**

It was late by the time Justin Cantori got back to his house that evening. His watch read 9:23 as he slowly mounted the front steps to his apartment, yawning and dragging his keys out of his jeans pocket. His body was aching with weariness, head throbbing with an overload of concern.

Uneasily, he had passed the eternal afternoon hours in the Sheena downtown, wandering the York Street plaza, drifting in and out of shops, and perusing various newspapers for details on the Granford House affair. Hands in his pockets, he'd paced restlessly, unable to distract himself from the fact that Jonah and Sigfried were simultaneously poking around the crime scene.

Maybe they'd found something and maybe they hadn't.

He'd felt oddly conspicuous out in public, because even though his photo hadn't made it into the write–ups, his name certainly had, as well as brief and relatively inconsequential details of his career. The articles were biased, sure – thanks in part to how sloppily the hostage situation had been handled, and also to the fact that the reporters had only gotten one side of the story. But truth in the media is always relative. Bill's and Kara Hadyn's names had been withheld, and details of Ferdinand's injury had been severely curtailed. There was no mention in any paper about a possible connection between the Granford Incident and the zombie plague in Raccoon. In fact, there was no mention that the kidnapper had been abnormal in any way at all.

At the same time this angered him, he was also relieved. Hernandez and Sigfried had fielded the majority of media attention for the sole purpose of keeping the hairy details hidden away, and Justin couldn't particularly say that he wanted to recapitulate his story into a tape recorder. Part of him wasn't so sure he could do justice to the horrific tale; the other part had begun to question the veracity of what he'd really seen the night of the 13th. It had been dark; he'd been exhausted; things had happened so fast. Maybe Bill had jumped the gun, maybe they could have somehow restrained the man, maybe there was something they'd missed, maybe, maybe, maybe…

But if what he remembered _was_ reality, then the public absolutely needed to know. Still, that didn't mean he was the one to tell them. He was Moses before the burning bush, arguing with Yahweh that he just didn't have the right words to say – that he'd take a rain check on leading the people out of Egypt.

Suddenly, Justin realized that he was still standing on the sun porch of his apartment, keys in hand, lost to the world. His throbbing head suddenly became a time bomb again, ticking and ticking away, washing frustration over him anew. He berated himself for wasting the day away. There had really been no point to his wanderings, and there was nothing gained by allowing anxieties to fester. In fact, had he been home, he could have actually accomplished something – maybe called some old friends or even fixed that goddamn leaky faucet in the bathroom like he'd promised Alyx he would.

He fumbled with his house key in the dark and somehow managed to get the front door open. Stepping inside, he let it slam shut behind him, simultaneously searching for the lightswitch with his hand. Alyx was there to meet him, yawning and stretching as he blinked rapidly in the sudden brightness.

He forced a smile for her benefit. "You lazy bum. While you've been lounging all day _I've_ been walking across Sheena."

Both by choice, of course.

The dog licked his hand by way of greeting, then shambled over to her bowl and flopped down beside it, tongue lolling out of her mouth.

Justin sighed. "I know, I know – you're hungry. Right. Don't worry about me – I'll just tend to your every need."

He dug a box of dog chow from out of a cabinet and dumped the contents into Alyx's bowl. She quickly attacked her meal with ferocity, leaving Justin free to check the messages. He crossed the kitchen to the telephone, hit the play–back button on the answering machine, and then leaned against the counter to listen. The first message was from the landlord, reminding Justin that he had four days left to pay his rent. Justin glanced over at the island in the middle of the kitchen and saw the bill lying there. He'd meant to fill it out the day before. It was something else he could have accomplished that afternoon. He returned his attention to the answering machine.

Strangely, the last two messages were blank. On each, there was a baited pause, the sounds of someone breathing for a moment, and then a _click_ as the caller hung up.

_What the hell?_ Justin thought absently, shaking his head. The damn kid next–door was home from college – probably high and trying to invent some fun by screwing with his friendly neighborhood police officer. This wouldn't be the first time it had happened.

For a long moment, Justin stood there, rubbing his eyes and ignoring the disgusting sounds of Alyx crunching the dry food. A great weight had taken up residence on his shoulders ever since he'd left the hospital that morning: a yoke of guilt.

"Take this off of me, Jesus," he moaned, still rubbing his eyes. And then, abruptly, he pushed off the counter and made his way down the hall towards the bathroom, intending to take a shower. The day, as could be expected for June in Nevada, had been dry and hot. At least the desert heat wasn't humid, meaning it was easily 10 degrees cooler in any shaded area, but he still felt as disgusting as if he'd just completed a marathon.

He'd just taken off his shirt and was just getting the water warmed up when the phone rang in the kitchen. He left the bathroom and reached around the corner to scoop the phone up on the fourth ring. Tucking the cordless between his head and shoulder, he headed back down the hall.

"H'lo?"

Silence. A muffled noise. _Click_.

Justin looked down at the phone in mild surprise. Then, sighing, he tossed the phone down the hall and onto his bed before re–entering the bathroom. If this was scheduled to go on all night, he'd just yank the cord from the wall and plug it back in en la mañana.

He was naked and almost in the shower when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He heard the breeze gusting through the wind chimes on the neighbor's front porch and a shiver wracked his bones. All of a sudden he realized just how alone he was in the house. Side _B _of the duplex wasn't all that big – in fact, it was considerably small being shared by a lazy dog and an indecisive human, neither of whom could ever quite agree on who owned what.

But suddenly, the place felt like a mansion. _Hiding places in the hall closet, the porch, the bedroom, the pantry –_

Shivering again, Justin padded out of the bathroom for a second time and down to his bedroom. Once there, he removed the Beretta M9 from the top drawer of his dresser and carried it with him back to the bathroom. He felt foolish, but the sensation that something was not right persisted.

Maybe he just had a case of nerves.

_I'm just letting everything get to me – that's all it is. I'm getting worked up over nothing._

Just the same, he left the gun on the sink and locked the bathroom door behind him before climbing into the relieving shower.

Ten minutes under the warm flow of water eased some of the tension from his body, but his mind was still on the alert. Justin shut off the water with a sigh and snatched his towel from the wall–mounted rack. It just wasn't possible to fully relax when the scenes from the night of the 13th kept playing before his eyes over and over again, like a CD on repeat. He tried distracting himself with more pleasant thoughts, but one way or another everything led back to the investigation and the fact that his name, career, and reputation were currently on the line.

The summer breeze hummed outside the bathroom window. Wind chimes continued to tinkle eerily.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and took the handgun with him back to the bedroom, wondering how many other cops in the world were walking around their homes, naked and armed. He'd already decided against putting on pajamas, just in case something out of the ordinary happened, and instead dug in his closet for some real clothes – an Old Navy t–shirt and a fresh pair of jeans.

Just in case.

No sooner had he strewn the clothing on the bed than the phone rang. For a moment, Justin considered just letting the answering machine field the call, but something in the back of his mind prodded him to answer. He snatched up the cordless from where it had landed by his pillow and cleared his throat before answering.

It was Hernandez and she sounded royally pissed.

Well, that was blessedly normal, but just the same Justin swallowed hard, gripping the phone tightly. "News?" he asked, almost pleading. Maybe Sigfried and Jonah had uncovered something at the Granford place or maybe lab results had revealed something unprecedented.

There was a long moment of silence – so long Justin thought maybe they might have been disconnected, but then Hernandez inhaled deeply and let the breath out in a noisy rush.

"The body was stolen," she said.

"What body?" he asked thickly.

_The _body_, stupid! The only body that would concern you –_

Hernandez' tone mirrored that of his mental voice. "The kidnapper, Cantori – the one from the Granford House."

Justin felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, joining the twisted, painful mess of his intestines. "_What_? How? The morgue's locked down and guarded! What about surveillance?"

"We don't know how. I…" Hernandez' voice was tight, and she was flustered. This was serious. "I want you down here ASAP, and you'd better have a goddamn alibi ready. Peter's here already. I can't get ahold of Sigfried – he isn't answering his phone or radio. Hell of a time for him to be out playing cards."

Justin cleared his throat, resolving not to be offended by her suspicion. From her perspective, he _did_ have reasonable motive, although he certainly didn't have a history of reckless behavior. _Yeah, well, you don't have a history of drug abuse either,_ he thought grimly.

Aloud, he said: "I'll be there as soon as I'm dressed."

She hung up, leaving him in a greater state of apprehension than before. This was more than a random coincidence – this was something organized, something big. But if things were connected… what would it mean? There was no indication of foul play, no rhyme or reason to _any _events as of late, and nothing but a whisper – a whisper about Umbrella.

The noise that met his ears was certainly louder than a whisper. It was a heart–stopping _crash_ because someone had just broken down the front door, and Alyx was barking madly – like Christmas had come early.

Justin had barely gotten his pants on. Seizing the handgun, he threw open the bedroom door and stalked noiselessly down the hall. Holding the gun in two hands, the cop edged into the kitchen, peering carefully around the corner to the front door. From his vantage point, he could see that there was someone on the front porch, someone tall with his face to the glass, peering into the kitchen –

Justin allowed a huge sigh of relief leave his lungs. He lowered the gun and quickly crossed the kitchen to unlock the door.

"Hey, Sid," he said, stepping back to let the S.T.A.R.S. lieutenant step inside. "This is a surprise visit – I've actually got to head down to the station in a few minutes. What happened – did you trip on the soccer ball out there?"

"Yeah, yeah," Jonah broke in rapidly, his eyes flicking around the room nervously. "I couldn't see in the dark."

"Well, normally when I'm expecting company I turn the light on –"

"Listen, we need to talk," Jonah broke in abruptly, and he was again searching the tiny house visually, as though he expected there to be more people around, someone who shouldn't hear –

Justin opened his mouth to say "okay", perhaps "let me get a shirt on", or maybe even "would you like some tea?" Instead, he found that his tongue was tied as he took in Jonah's disheveled countenance, the man's sweaty face and fearful eyes.

_What is going on?_

First the body missing, now this. Instantly, Justin's heart was thrumming like a 747. "What is it, Sid?" he asked slowly, wondering whether he really wanted to hear.

Jonah brushed past him, looking down the hall and into the sitting room. Justin noticed that the Bravo's right hand was riding the butt of his gun, and he seemed to be clutching something concealed beneath his shirt –

"Are we alone?" Jonah demanded, turning back to Justin.

"I – yeah, Sid," Justin said distractedly, indicating with his hand that they should go into the sitting room. "What happened?" He was afraid that he might already know the answer.

Wordlessly, Jonah dropped into the armchair, and Justin quickly pulled the spindly old chair over from the corner to sit beside him. Sid had wrapped both arms around his middle, clutching whatever it was he had hidden there, and he was still sweating despite the cool evening. Breathing noisily, he looked full into Justin's eyes, maybe trying to communicate telepathically. It didn't work, so he opened his mouth and tried to speak, failed, and then tried again.

"You were right," he finally croaked, helpless and small. He sounded absolutely terrified. "Something… Something's happened – with Umbrella. Something they don't want anyone to know about."

Justin felt sweat break out on his own back, but it – like Jonah's – had nothing to do with the temperature. His throat was suddenly dry, his tongue thick.

"What, Sid – what is it?" he demanded.

Jonah swallowed hard, and then slowly drew out from beneath his shirt –

A folder: manila, dirty and rumpled like it had been stepped on several times, stamped with the trademark of Umbrella Pharmaceutical.

They both stared at it like it was the Holy Grail, and then Jonah extended the packet to Justin wordlessly. Dread washed Justin's insides with ice and he hesitated before taking the folder and laying it on the coffee table. As Alyx nudged Jonah's hand with her nose and he absently began stroking her head, Justin opened the folder, holding his breath.

The first thing he saw was a letter, a copy of a handwritten note. It was barely ten paragraphs and he read through it with lightning speed, taking in the fact that someone called A. Wesker was working for a branch of Umbrella developing bioweapons production. There were several intensely detailed documents comprised of words like amplification, rapid–fuse virions, transfusibility, monobasic salts, and something called a T–Virus. And there were photographs too: one of the kidnapper himself which had been torn in half, and several more depicting unbelievable monsters – lizards with talons three feet long at the least, their bodies glistening with scales the hard quality of mica and red eyes gleaming from beneath reptilian brows; a gigantic, deformed monster that grinned lustily at Justin as though it could see him despite the fact that its eyes were closed.

It was all so unreal, all so 1950's sci–fi. But however frightening – however insane – it all somehow made perfect sense. Fact is stranger than fiction, after all.

Justin closed the folder, having seen enough. He felt contaminated by touching the evidence, as though it had somehow passed the zombie plague onto him. What he was holding was the missing link in the evolution of the Raccoon Valley crisis: proof that a genetically engineered virus had been unleashed on an innocent population by a company heralding itself as for the people, by the people. Intentionally or by accident, it didn't matter anymore.

He shivered, struggling to process all the information. The apartment was suddenly cold, suddenly as hostile and unforgiving as the rest of the world – no more a sanctuary than a warzone.

"Justin, there's more," Jonah said suddenly, bringing him back to the sitting room.

Blinking, Justin looked over at him, wondering how much more he could bear. _Whoever said knowledge was power obviously didn't know what the hell he was talking about. I can't do a damn thing._

Jonah was sweating worse than ever. "Other people know," he said hoarsely. "Justin, important people know, but they're trying to keep it quiet. No one's supposed to find out about this, but… I found this in the house – the kidnapper brought it with him."

More pieces were falling into place.

Justin sat back in the chair, ignoring the way the wood creaked. "So the kidnapper… He worked for Umbrella, then – that's the connection. He must have known the truth, fled the company with this information. Maybe he was trying to get this packet to the government? Or, or, or maybe he was blackmailed…"

He fixed Jonah with a stare, failed to notice that the other cop was muttering and not paying attention. "He was infected, right? And he knew all about everything – maybe, maybe he was _deliberately_ infected, to keep him quiet?"

"Justin," Jonah croaked, interrupting. "Justin, _other people know_. It's not safe."

He was repeating himself, unnecessarily. Of course other people knew – the secret had to have gotten out somehow. And of course it wasn't safe – not with a company as influential as Umbrella wiping out an entire population of people and then covering it up, just so they could continue that research –

And then they both jumped as Alyx barked, somewhere out in the kitchen. She was growling angrily, threatening. But Alyx was a friendly dog, spoiled rotten and domesticated to the point where she thought she was human. Justin was always happy to let her babysit his nieces and nephew when his sister came to visit because they could climb all over her and she would just wag her tail. Sure, she might bark at the neighbors if they woke her up or were being too noisy, but this…

This was a menacing growl.

Something _was_ wrong.

Justin got up quickly, darting into the kitchen, and Jonah followed in confusion. Alyx was crouched down on the floor, her teeth bared as she growled at the front door.

"What is it, girl?" Justin murmured, dropping to his knees beside the dog, partially behind the island.

She ceased her growling long enough to lick his hand in a reassuring sort of way, as if to say "I got your back, hon", then immediately bared her teeth at the door again. Her hackles stood on end, the fur trailing down her back erect like quills.

"Justin," Jonah mumbled, behind him.

Ignoring the other cop, Justin got slowly to his feet, wishing that he had not left his own handgun on the coffee table in the sitting room. He wasn't quite sure what to expect, but he wasn't ready to count on Jonah for any support. At the moment, the man seemed on the verge of breakdown – he certainly wasn't ready to handle a crisis –

"Justin," Jonah said again, grasping him by the elbow, painfully turning the shorter cop around to face him. Suddenly – alarmingly – the lieutenant seemed on the verge of tears, like something inside him had just snapped. "Justin… I think they have my family."

Justin's throat tightened. "_What_?"

– and behind them, the window above the sink exploded inward in a shower of glass, raining crystal fragments all over the linoleum –

"Oh, _shit_!" Justin fell away from the lieutenant, dropping like a stone as Alyx yelped in fright. There was a heavy thud as Jonah fell to the floor, his upper body out of sight behind the island, legs thrashing violently –

Alyx hunkered beside Justin as glass rained down. Her growls had risen to deep, warning barks, but Justin was already in motion, fleeing the room on his hands and knees –

And then he saw Jonah, staring blankly at the refrigerator, his ghostly face reflected in the growing puddle of his own blood. And even though he knew there was no time, Justin found that he couldn't move, found that he couldn't tear his eyes away from the neat hole in the lieutenant's forehead –

_He's gone! He's GONE! _Move_, damn you –_

Without thinking, he snatched Jonah's gun from where it had fallen on the linoleum, and then he was moving again, out of the kitchen as Alyx backed out after him, snarling –

Once in the hallway, he was on his feet, tearing towards his bedroom. Behind him, the sounds of more glass shattering and the minute whistling of silenced bullets –

Someone wanted him dead. Someone had wanted Sid Jonah dead.

_This is not good –_

Justin flew into the bedroom, tearing the top dresser drawer open before he had even come to a halt. He grabbed three spare clips for his Beretta, knowing that Jonah's M9 was standard issue and the same make as his. He jammed the extras into his jeans pocket and dove behind the bed, clutching the gun to his chest, breathing hard.

There was a savage growl from the kitchen, a human yelp of fright, and then two silenced gunshots. Alyx' paws scrabbled wildly on the kitchen surface and she tore from the room, barking as she fled to the sitting room, probably to hide in the closet where she slept –

– a final smash of glass, then the front door was opening with a crash. Heavy footfalls in the kitchen, grinding glass underfoot. Orders were muttered in agitated voices, and then footsteps could be heard clomping down the hallway.

And then the lights went out. Instantly, the apartment became a crypt, vast and dark and deadly. The intruders had tripped the circuit from outside – maybe even cut the power lines to the house.

– _not good, not good –_

And suddenly there were boots, silently entering the dark bedroom – Justin could see them from beneath the bed. He saw moonlight gleam off the polished leather, knew exactly where his quarry was standing –

He moved, rolling over backwards and coming up in a crouch by the bed. Before he had even completed the roll, he had fired two shots from Jonah's Beretta, both of which took the first man full in the face. Blood spattered the wall as he went down, black in the darkness.

Justin had already risen and taken down the second agent with a double–tap to the chest, one to the head. The dead man got his feet tangled in the throw rug on the hallway floor and crashed facedown on top of his fellow.

While the robbers – or whoever they were – had guns equipped with silencers, Jonah's Beretta had no such paraphernalia. The five rounds Justin fired boomed through the house like cannon fire. A shout came from the pitch black kitchen, and a shadow darted around the corner and into the hall, moving with the darkness –

Justin fired once, reacting involuntarily. The bullet caught the shadow in the shoulder, spinning him around and throwing him into the wall. A black smear decorated the once–white plaster where he hit. The man gurgled in pain and struggled to get to his feet, but a second bullet made him lie still. In the darkness it was impossible to tell whether or not he was dead.

The air rang with the weapon's sharp report. Crouching down next to the body of the first perp, Justin scooped up the dead man's pistol and held one gun in each hand as he waited for the next assailant to come around the corner.

_Please don't let them have night–vision goggles, God, please –_

"Wait! Wait, Three! He'll kill you if you go alone! Work together. Two at a time – go with Five!"

As the orders met Justin's ears, he quickly retreated behind the bed again, peering over the sheets anxiously. They came around the corner, and Justin ducked, praying they hadn't seen him –

– waited just long enough for the heavy tread of boots in the doorway before popping up, firing twice from each gun. He ducked down again, heard one thug go down with a strangled cry and the shouts of the survivor. Return fire from a semi–auto filled the room with lightning, splintered the glass on the portrait above Justin's head and tearing tufts of foam from the mattress –

And then Justin popped back up again, nailing the man with a single shot to the gut. Black blood spurted from his facemask as he doubled over, coughing up gore –

Discarding the empty gun he had stolen, Justin emerged from behind the bed and stalked forward, listening hard over his pounding heart and the retching of the gut–shot man writhing on the carpet. He cautiously stepped over the bodies in the hall, noiselessly making his way towards the kitchen.

– indistinct orders, the none–too–soft rush of booted feet from the dark kitchen –

Justin ducked into the bathroom and a second later another shadow flashed by. Without hesitation, Justin stepped back out into the hall and shot the man in the back of the head with Jonah's Beretta. He went down hard with a sick crunch of bone as his shoulder hit the wooden floor first.

His hands were trembling worse than before as he stepped out of the bathroom. _I just shot a man in the back… I just shot a man in the back…_

The reality of it echoed in his mind: the painful guilt of a murderer.

And then he was at the end of the hall, quickly peeking out into the kitchen –

– barely getting back behind the wall as bullets embedded themselves in the plaster.

"He's right there! He's right there!"

Justin heard them advancing on his position and reacted without thinking. He dove into the kitchen, rolling behind the island as bullets ate up the linoleum, tracking him, but it was dark and the perps could only track his shadowy movements –

– splinters of wood from the island flew in the air, the smell of gun smoke –

He had barely gotten a good look in the blackness, but Justin had noticed at least three of the assassins standing in the doorway. He was no way he could dispose of three of them at once–

_What do they _want _from me?_

Silence fell as they stopped firing, then –

"There's no way out, Cantori! Come out and we won't shoot!"

– _and how do they know my name?_

His mind racing, Justin curled himself into a ball, trying to make himself as small as possible behind the island. The only cover he had here was darkness.

"Give it up, Cantori!"

So, Justin stood up. He knew he was dead an instant before he did it. But he also knew that he would take as many of them out with him as he could.

_For Jonah._

He pumped the trigger, swinging the weapon in an arc as the shadows surrounding him opened fire. The closest man crumpled over Jonah's body, screaming, but Justin was still standing as the next man spun around with a bullet in his cheek –

And the dull _click_ of the empty. Jonah's clip was gone, and there was no time to grab the one from his pocket. The room fell silent, save for the ringing in his ears. If only he'd had only had _one_ more goddamn shot.

There was only one man still on his feet, an imposing shadow across the dark room, identical in every way to his companions. He wore a black riot gear and a facemask, hiding any of his distinguishing features, but there was unmistakable triumph in his black eyes.

They had won. _He_ had won.

Justin slowly lowered Jonah's gun, trembling. He was bleeding from a thousand cuts all over his upper body – souvenirs from the glass shards that were all over the kitchen floor. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

The man across the room said nothing. He jerked the nose of his handgun downwards, towards the floor. The intent was clear. Justin tossed the empty pistol onto the cutting board on the island with grim disdain.

_I'm so sorry, Sid._

The perp kept his semi trained on Justin's still form. He reached with his free hand and pulled a boxy object from his belt and spoke into it. "Bravo leader here. Suspect's been apprehended. Request backup."

A voice squawked back from the radio – masculine, monotone. "Acknowledged, Bravo. Alpha moving in."

"What the hell is this?" Justin demanded. "Who are you?"

The assassin set the radio down on the counter, still keeping the gun trained on Justin's face.

"Shut up," he said.

Justin clenched his fists, thinking hard. Umbrella had to have their fingers in this. How they had found out about Jonah and the folder so quickly was a mystery, but there was no other alternative. Sid wouldn't have been stupid enough to mouth off to anyone else – he'd been so scared he hadn't even been able to tell Justin the details.

"I know what Umbrella's been doing," Justin said boldly, working his hands into fists. "Is that why you're here? To keep me quiet?"

The man in the doorway snorted a laugh without humor. "I don't give a damn what you know and don't know and I don't know what the hell Umbrella has to do with anything. I'm just here to bring you in, no questions asked."

"So you're working for them, then," Justin said, making the question into a statement.

"I'm not the one making the calls," the man snapped angrily. And then, as he shifted his stance, moonlight illuminated the insignia on his shoulder – a logo with three emblazoned stars encircled by the department name – and Justin felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

S.T.A.R.S. Goddamn S.T.A.R.S., as in the Special Tactics And Rescue Service – Jonah's fucking detail!

_No way, not possible…_

The organization was a nation–wide MP organization funded and directed by the NSDA. Their good name had recently been tarnished by a series of mishaps – primarily the disasters in Raccoon, Pennsylvania – but also thanks to reports of agents going AWOL from several branches across the country. The Sheena district's branch had remained largely unrecognized for the better part of the four years since the squad had first been officially activated. Most of the agents in the unit spent their time taking up space or sitting with their feet up on their desks while they waited for the rare task of rescuing kittens from tree branches. The Granford Estate on the 13th had been their first real assignment in months.

The man standing in front of him had to be Captain Isaac Brown of the Bravo detail, an ex–marine who had been decorated for bravery in Korea. The men Justin had killed were also ex–military, all between the ages of 30 and 36, and most of them had been married with children. The Alpha team, by contrast, was younger: fresh recruits trained for special ops.

Justin swallowed hard, trying to keep his hands from shaking. He was fairly certain that Jimmy Stanton was the man sprawled on the floor beside him, and Hank Bailer had to be the one writhing in the bedroom with a bullet in his gut.

So the S.T.A.R.S. worked for Umbrella now. But hadn't there been some type of legal trouble between the two over Raccoon – something about the S.T.A.R.S. branch there throwing accusations about the company's biohazard programs? Maybe that had been the root of the whole scandal.

Or had they known the truth?

"So you kill your own, Captain Brown?" Justin asked raggedly, breathing through his gritted teeth.

"Oh, you figured it out, huh?" Brown said dangerously. "For your information, Cantori, Lieutenant Jonah was acting without authorization. He went against his team, and the S.T.A.R.S. don't tolerate treason."

"He was trying to protect the public from the disease your company created!" Justin shouted, enraged.

Brown hesitated, perhaps confused. "Look, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. For some reason you think you have the answers now, but you don't know anything. _I _don't know anything. Neither of us means anything in the long run, Cantori, and if you ask me, you're not worth all this trouble. If it weren't for you, Bill Ferdinand might still be part of my squad!"

"Yeah," Justin snapped, "hell of a time for you to take a personal day." It had actually been family related as he had learned, but he didn't feel guilty bringing it to light – not with this new context. He tried not to think about the fact that if Bill _had_ still been part of the team, he'd be as dead as the rest of them, strewn on the kitchen linoleum like rag dolls.

"Yeah," Brown repeated, taking a bold step closer. "If it were up to me, I'd be watching you die right now, Cantori. But someone high up has big plans for you –"

Captain Brown didn't get to finish his statement. At that instant a gray, snarling shadow collided with him in the dark, knocking him prostrate on the floor. The gun went off at the ceiling, flaring in the darkness, and skittered away as the captain lost his hold on the weapon.

Alyx had sunk her fangs deep into Brown's arm and was tearing at him vehemently. The man thrashed and screamed, trying to get away –

Breathing shallowly, Justin scooped up Brown's gun. Dog and man continued scuffling, a writhing tangle of shadows in the dark. Alyx had already won: Brown's blood was matting her fur as she shook the captain's arm again violently, as though he were a toy. Her fangs ripped and shredded skin and muscle as they sank deeper and deeper into the captain's flesh.

"Heel, Alyx," Justin murmured.

The dog obeyed immediately. She dropped the captain's arm and danced away to sit next to the bullet–riddled refrigerator.

Moonlight filled the captain's eyes as Justin leveled the gun at his face, gleaming off pain–induced tears. "Well?" he hissed furiously. "What are you fucking waiting for?"

Grunting, Justin crushed the butt of the semi against Brown's skull, putting him out instantly. Then, with a gasp of relief, the cop sank to a sitting position in the middle of the dark kitchen, in the midst of all the carnage.

The silence was deafening. It rang in his ears, pressing in on them painfully.

Immediately, Alyx darted forward and sat on her haunches beside him. She licked his face affectionately, smearing Brown's blood across his cheek. Justin closed his eyes, letting the back of his head rest against the island, clutching the dog close. They were both shaking, but they were both alive.

_The Alphas will be here any minute,_ he told himself, fighting waves of exhaustion. _You have to go now. You won't get lucky a second time._

But more importantly, he had to get that folder –

He struggled to his feet and hurried into the sitting room. The folder still lay open on the coffee table, a dissected secret. Justin gathered its contents together, crushing them and his gun securely to his chest, and reentered the kitchen, wondering just where he should go. That impossible sense of hopelessness was rapidly stealing over him again – the same as he'd felt when Jonah had first showed him the folder.

_Where can I go? Who can I trust?_

He automatically headed for the phone, perhaps intending to call 911, but sudden doubt caused him to hesitate. Jonah had said that other people knew – people in high places. The S.T.A.R.S. were a prime example. Who was really on _his_ side? And who would even believe him if he told the truth?

There was no time to wonder: he needed help and he needed it now.

At the instant his hand touched the receiver, it rang. Justin swore, then picked it up. "Yeah?"

"Justin? Justin Cantori?" The voice was masculine, concerned, and somehow familiar.

Distracted, Justin cleared his throat, hoping that the person on the other end couldn't hear his agitation. "Look, um, I'm kind of… busy at the moment. Can I call back tomorrow or some other –?"

"Oh, _shit_. Are they already there?"

In the dark, Justin blanched. "Who is this?" he demanded.

"Justin, it's Jeff."

He stared blankly into the darkness, clutching the folder of evidence, mouthing soundlessly.

_Jeff. Jeff Metros. No shit._

The man was a lifelong friend, more like a brother. They'd grown up together back east, stemming from the same church and school, entertaining similar interests. They'd even had a fucking band. Justin hadn't heard from him in months – not since Jeff had told him he was getting involved with something relating to special police work somewhere east. He hadn't specified then because it was still a tentative thing, and then he'd dropped off the face of the earth, leaving no forwarding address or phone number with which to contact him.

In fact, it surprised Justin so much to hear his friend's name that he nearly laughed outright. But why was he calling now?

Justin found his voice. "What do you know about this, Jeff?"

"I'll explain later. Are you okay?"

He thought about the fact that his house was destroyed and that "safety" was an illusion he would never have about home ever again. He thought about how his life in Sheena was effectively over, how he would most likely be running from the law, how he was picking a fight with a social giant, how it would undoubtedly consume the rest of his life. And then he looked down at Lieutenant Sid Jonah, sprawled lifelessly beneath the body of an assassin – one of the very men he'd worked alongside, someone he'd considered a brother.

"Yeah," he lied. "I'm fine."

"What about the Umbrella people?" Jeff persisted.

Justin swallowed hard. Part of him wanted to unmask the S.T.A.R.S. to know whether or not Hank and Jimmy had definitely been among them, but he didn't need to carry any more guilt. It was better not to know for sure.

"They're dead," he replied.

"Shit," Jeff said heavily, grimly impressed. "Well, the important thing is that you're okay. You have to listen to me, and listen carefully. Bravo is the first of two teams – I can see the Alpha van moving past my position right now. You have to get out of your house as fast as you can."

Justin licked his lips, swaying on the spot. "Shouldn't I call –?"

"No, don't call anyone." The firmness of Jeff's tone killed the questions rising in Justin's mind and discouraged any notions of arguing. "Just trust me. The Alphas are specially trained – you won't last long against them, and any help you call for won't arrive for a long, long time. Now listen. I'm in a black sedan parked just down the road from your apartment. I need you to somehow sneak around the Alphas and get to me – problem is they're practically at your front door."

Justin had headed back down to the bedroom and was hastily shoving spare clips gleaned from enemy guns into his pockets. "Black sedan, down the street. I got it."

"Stay low the second you get out – they're parked on the curb in front of your house – unmarked black van. They're getting out now –"

Justin took a deep, steadying breath. "What do I do?"

"Is there a back exit? Some back door or cellar way or something?"

He gritted his teeth and felt like panicking. "No."

It was remarkable how calm Jeff still managed to sound. "Climb out a window, bro."

Justin already had the sash up and had one leg thrown over the sill before he remembered Alyx, who had followed him into the bedroom. He bit his lower lip, looking down at her shadowy form, already knowing he couldn't take her with him. "What about my dog?"

Jeff sighed. "I'm sorry, man, but who's more important? Listen. Someone's bound to have heard the gunshots – hell, I can hear sirens in the distance right now. If you can get away, the Alphas will leave as quickly as possible before the authorities get here and find them at the crime scene. They're acting without proper jurisdiction – Umbrella keyed in their super–special override sequence."

Justin threw the other leg over the windowsill, refusing to look at Alyx, knowing he would never see her again. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Just got here a few minutes ago. Don't leave that folder!"

It seemed pointless at the moment to ask how he knew. Justin was crouching in the bushes behind his apartment now, looking out at the dark street. The land sloped downwards on the side of the duplex and there were several thick trees that would provide some cover. He edged his way down the steep incline, holding his gun ready.

From behind the closest tree, he peered out at the front of the apartment, still clutching the cordless phone between his head and shoulder. He could see the black van double–parked directly in front of his apartment just as Jeff had said, and as he watched, an Alpha entered the dark house while another slipped around the duplex from behind, heading in his direction. The rest were already inside.

_Now or never._

Before Justin could bolt, he heard – from inside the house – Alyx snarl, someone yell, and then several quick bursts from an automatic weapon. And then followed silence – perfect, horrible, sickening silence.

Justin felt his eyes burning suddenly, and his vision blurred, but there was no time to grieve because the Alphas were sweeping outside –

"Okay, I'm away," he grunted into the phone.

"Keep going. You're almost safe." Jeff hung up.

Justin tossed the cordless into the bushes and slunk away through the darkness, staying low so as not to present a good target. Once on the sidewalk, he broke into a flat run and continued on that way, until he spotted the sedan parked between a convertible and a Lincoln on the opposite side of the street.

The driver – invisible behind fully tinted windows – flashed the headlights once and then the engine rumbled to life. Out of breath, Justin stumbled across the street towards the vehicle, clutching the folder tightly to his chest, praying that he had the strength to make it five more steps, four more, three –

– heard the distinct whistle of silenced bullets zipping past his shoulder –

The passenger–side door to the sedan was suddenly thrown open, and a man in a black trench coat stepped out, using the door as cover –

The silenced handgun flared twice brilliantly, snapping the pursuer's head around, dropping the man like he'd hit a trip wire. The assassin rolled over once on the asphalt and landed in the gutter, gurgling on his own blood.

Before Justin could even reach for the handle, the rear passenger door was thrown open and hands reached out to grab him. Jeff Metros pulled his friend inside the back seat of the vehicle, shouting to the driver, "Step on it, Barry!"


	8. Revelations

**Chapter 7: Revelations

* * *

**Interstate 93: North  
Sheena, Nevada  
16 July, 1999  
2147 hrs (9:47pm)**

* * *

**

The driver of the black sedan burned rubber on the pavement, spun a u–turn, and got them away from Justin's apartment and the death that was inside.

There were several long and incredibly tense minutes as the driver, whom Jeff had called Barry, took them rapidly through Sheena and onto route 50, which would connect them to the interstate just beyond Ely. Silence reigned as the occupants of the back seat – two indistinct individuals besides Justin – watched out the rear windshield, eyes peeled for any signs of pursuit. The roads behind them remained gloriously empty, and the moment they reached 93 northbound, the atmosphere within the vehicle lifted and they released a collective sigh of relief. Barry lost them in the night traffic, heading in the direction of San Jacinto.

The dark form that was Jeff spoke. "Justin? Are you hit?"

He opened his eyes and blinked in the darkness. "No," he gasped, suddenly realizing that he was still holding his breath. "I don't think so."

"Everyone cover your eyes – I'm turning the light on." There was some jostling, and then Jeff managed to flip the overhead light on.

He hadn't changed much, despite the significant time elapse between their last meeting and now. He'd maintained the same build, kept the same buzzed haircut, was still wearing that same w.w.J.d bracelet on his right wrist. He was unshaven and exhausted, but still very much the same easy–going yet melancholy Jeff Metros whom Justin remembered from childhood: the same Jeff Metros who'd tolerated relentless teasing over having a white mother and a black father, in addition to jabs at the color of his own skin; who'd hosted almost weekly sleepovers in his mother's basement throughout their elementary and junior high years; who'd bought a wrecked '67 Fastback Mustang and worked tirelessly to restore it during their first year of community college; and who'd remained strong at 22, even after he'd sat alone for nearly an hour with his grandfather's head in his lap as the old man slipped into eternity, choking on his own tongue.

He _hadn't_ changed. And yet, at the same time, there was something different about him now. He felt close, yet distant; alive yet deadened. His eyes seemed hollow.

But then he was grinning, and suddenly the look was gone – suddenly everything was normal again. "Thank God," he said, throwing an arm around Justin's bare shoulders to give him a tight, sideways hug. "You always did pick bad friends."

The other people in the car chuckled, probably more out of courtesy than actual amusement. Justin nodded awkwardly in response: he seemed to have left his sense of humor back in the apartment with Jonah and Alyx.

"You sure you're okay?" He slapped both of Justin's cheeks, rocked the cop's head back and forth on his shoulders, and finally got a small smile out of the shorter man. "Okay, I'm convinced now," he said, finally releasing his friend. "Well, then. Allow me to conduct the introductions." He indicated the driver. "Justin, this is Barry Burton –" then the man in the passenger seat "– Acting–Captain Chris Redfield, and Jill Valentine."

Barry was a big man, built like a truck. He had a short, red beard that matched his hair, a loud voice, and a long, visible scar on the back of his neck. The man in the passenger seat was the one who had dropped Justin's pursuer in the street. He was tall and authoritative despite his age – certainly he wasn't much older than Justin – yet his face was prematurely haggard. The third person in the sedan sat on the opposite side of Jeff. She looked to be about twenty-five years of age, had shoulder–length, red–brown hair and striking eyes. Her hello smile – if it could be called that – was cool, calculating, and distant.

These were men and a woman who trusted no one.

"Now listen," Jeff began as his fellows mumbled hellos. He was fumbling beneath his feet for a First–Aid kit. "I'm sure you're freaking out inside because so much has happened so fast. I understand you, I do. We're gonna fill you in on a couple things, but I need you to just sit tight and not jump to any conclusions. In fact, it would be better if you just kept your piehole shut until I'm finished, okay?"

Justin nodded mutely. He wasn't sure he had the energy to talk anyway.

"Where to start?" Jeff asked rhetorically, releasing a huge sigh. "Okay. Jill, Barry, Chris and I are what's left of the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. team – yeah, Raccoon PA. S.T.A.R.S., yes, but we're not about to hand you over to anyone or anything like that. Umbrella may have gotten hold of the organization, but not us. I'm not sure how much you know about the Raccoon Incident, but we're not exactly on Umbrella's list of favorite people."

He swept a hand in an horizontal arc, indicating his fellows again. "You're looking at three members of the suspended Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. team. I'm sure you've read all about their little drug addictions in the papers, right?"

The details were a little fuzzy, but he seemed to remember something about a helicopter crash and the resulting deaths of six agents. However, the only glaring detail he remembered at the moment was that they were all supposed to be dead.

Jeff shrugged, probably uncomfortable being the narrator. He'd never been a long–winded individual. "Long story short, these fellas were involved in the murder investigation in the Raccoon Valley last summer, and they stumbled upon incriminating evidence about what Umbrella was up to. We'll explain in detail later, although I'm pretty sure you've got a good idea about what's going on."

He pointed down, directing Justin's attention to the folder of evidence. He'd forgotten he was holding it, but now it was heavy in his lap again – like a tombstone.

Jeff continued, oblivious. "Anyway, Umbrella called in their favors. They used their people in the Raccoon government to have these guys booted from active duty. The broken S.T.A.R.S. department had already submitted their formal complaints against the company, but Umbrella had plenty of people in the police department too, including the Chief himself, so those accusations got brushed under the carpet and once the S.T.A.R.S.' general competence was called into question, their credibility went out the window. During the Raccoon fiasco – which, as you now know, was Umbrella's doing – the living S.T.A.R.S. went underground because their lives were endangered – not unlike yours, bro. Ever since the beginning of the epidemic, they've been working at gathering evidence on Umbrella, to expose the threat the company poses and ultimately put them away. We're currently running twenty–four–hour surveillance of the Umbrella mainframe, tracking their every move."

Again, he shrugged uncertainly – like there was more he wanted to say but couldn't. "To sum this all up, we arrived in Nevada yesterday and are currently organizing a strike against Umbrella – in fact, right in Sheena. We'll explain that later also."

Jeff looked him in the eye – straight and unblinking. It was the same look he'd given Justin more than a decade ago on the occasion when they'd discussed Jessica Bernstin, the girl both of them had pursued. "Just remember: we're all friends here. No one is going to hand you over to anyone. Okay? We're all fugitives. Umbrella's the bad guy, not us."

Justin cleared his throat, attempting to find his voice. For a moment, he thought about thanking them for the rescue, but he was fairly certain his gratitude was already obvious and he didn't want to gush to strangers.

"So tell me what's going on here," he said instead, hoarsely. "All I know is that two days ago, my police detail cornered what we thought to be your average kidnapper in an abandoned house, but he turned out to have some virus that's related to Umbrella – and Raccoon."

Jeff bobbed his head, seemingly satisfied by Justin's response – or lack thereof. "Okay. Like I said, we've been discreetly keeping surveillance on Umbrella's activities. A couple weeks ago we stumbled on a confidential set of orders sent to an unidentified recipient in Sheena, Nevada about an employee in that vicinity who had bolted with a packet of evidence against Umbrella's work. Apparently, the man was infected with the virus and he wanted a cure for his sickness. We're not sure how he got infected, but he was naturally desperate."

Abruptly, Acting–Captain Chris Redfield turned around in his seat to face the backseat occupants. His eyes were hard as he met Justin's gaze. "But there is no cure – not when the disease is that advanced."

Jeff studied his hands. "He must not have known that – as far as we can tell. Anyway, the dispatch was sent out to a contact in Sheena, a contact who was supposed to locate the employee, dispose of him, and retrieve the evidence. I take it you've realized by now that the man you cornered in that abandoned house was the one Umbrella was looking for?"

Justin nodded and said nothing.

"Well, we don't know anything about the mole in Sheena, but he obviously didn't accomplish his mission," Chris said. He was turned back to face forward again but talking to Justin. "Do you know how many people knew you had that folder? That might give us some insight as to who the contact is."

Justin shook his head slowly, guilt over Jonah's death resurfacing. He choked it down with frustration and not a little anger. "I… I wasn't even the one to find it – one of my fellow officers did. I was suspended after the incident on the 13th – what was it…? Stress, failure to obey orders, and 'drug–induced hallucinations'. Ironic, huh? Today, one of the S.T.A.R.S. – Lieutenant Sid Jonah – went to go over the crime scene in my stead. I'm not sure how many people were with him when he found the folder, but he came straight to me."

He turned his head to look at Jeff. "Jonah was always strong – I've never seen him so scared. He turned up at my house about a half hour ago with this folder, but he didn't get to tell me all he knew." He swallowed hard, and his eyes were burning suddenly. "He said that someone had threatened his family. But then the S.T.A.R.S. showed up. They… They fucking killed him. Even though he was one of them."

Silence fell over them again, mournful.

Finally, Chris Redfield said, "I'm sorry, Justin. We've all lost friends."

"So it sounds like someone else knew your friend had found the folder," Jill Valentine broke in, bringing all attention to herself. Her voice would have had a musical quality if she hadn't sounded so terse. "You say you don't know who was with him when he found the folder?"

Justin shook his head wearily. "The only person I know of was one of my superiors, but there were probably others. I can't imagine they didn't take the CSI team."

Chris shrugged without conviction. "Doesn't matter much, now – not since we have this evidence."

"It might affect the operation," Jeff said, countering. "If the informant's still in place, it could mean that we'll be treading on eggshells."

Chris shook his head determinedly. "Leon will keep an eye on everything – just as a precaution – but I don't think it will hinder us." He looped an arm around his seat's headrest and extended a hand towards Justin, indicating the folder. "May I?"

Justin handed the packet to him without hesitation, almost glad to relieve himself of the burden. "It's not enough," he told them, probably unnecessarily.

Jeff nodded in agreement. "Documents and photos can be forged. What we really need is a sample of the virus – the one that killed off Raccoon. Really, that's quite possibly the only thing that we can use against them."

"What exactly _is _the virus?" Justin asked, watching as Chris rifled through the folder's contents.

No one seemed particularly eager to answer the question, but obviously they'd been expecting it to come at some point in the conversation – probably later than sooner.

Jeff sighed heavily, resignedly. "I can't tell you exact details because it gets pretty complicated, but essentially what the T–Virus does is destroy nerves and tissue. It's a powerful contagion that can infect humans and animals alike, so when released it can infect an entire ecosystem – if left unchecked. And because it directly attacks hosts' immune systems, there is no immunity to it. There's no small enough dosage you could put into a vaccine that wouldn't just infect the person outright. It only takes a couple hours, days, maybe weeks if the host is only subjected to a weaker strain, but eventually the T–Virus reduces the host to nothing but a mindless…"

He floundered for the word. "…zombie."

"Zombies," Jill repeated softly. "Cannibals, monsters, whatever." Her voice had suddenly turned monotone, no longer vivacious. It was the tone of someone who has distanced herself – to dull the hurt, to relieve the pain. And yet, a note of disgust was still present even in her attempt to be emotionless: a hint of fury that she simply could not contain. "The only thing human left about them is the ability to recognize basic needs – AKA hunger. So they eat whatever they can get their hands on."

Silence fell for the space of several seconds. The description was grotesque, yet fictitious – humorous even. A strange desire to laugh came over Justin, but he had already seen the effects of the virus firsthand, and it was nothing to laugh about.

"Why?" he asked, stupidly. "Why would they – why would they _make_ something like that? And how? Wouldn't someone find out –?"

"Umbrella specializes in medicinal research," Chris said from the front seat as he intently perused the letter from "A. Wesker". "Obviously. There is, however, a branch of the company that no one really knows about. It's called White Umbrella, and they study biological weapons and viruses. They created the T–Virus possibly for military applications."

The name sounded familiar. Justin was sure he had read it somewhere in the folder. "Okay," he agreed, furrowing his brow. "Bioweapons research and whatnot, that makes sense. So was discovering the virus just an accident?"

Jeff shook his head. "Maybe releasing it on Raccoon was, but the creation certainly wasn't. They devoted years to it – whole teams and facilities world–wide, for almost fifty years. They purposely engineered this thing." He looked Justin in the eye intensely, about to reiterate just how special Jessica was to him. "They tested it on human beings."

It seemed that the bottom of his stomach had dropped out. His first reaction was to deny this cruel, inhumane abomination, to argue that there was no way people could be that despicable. Hell, there was only one unforgiveable sin in the Scriptures, but this came pretty damn close. And suddenly, Justin understood why the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. were still fighting, even in the face of loss and despair. Suddenly the death of Sid Jonah meant a lot more to him than it had before.

"Naturally, Umbrella has covered its tracks extremely well," Jeff said, because Justin hadn't responded. "Otherwise – like you said – their secret would have gotten out years ago. Thanks to their billionaire forefathers, the company has been able to bribe their way out of jams and when that hasn't worked, they've taken more drastic approaches – like they did tonight. Not only have they bought seats in local and state governments, but also high–ups in the military – including the S.T.A.R.S."

"It makes sense," Justin said, nodding. "They've got someone else to handle the dirty work that could possibly implicate them. They don't have to be directly involved in anything shady with mercenaries to go between."

"Right," Jeff said grimly. He was still speaking to Justin, but was watching out the front windshield as Barry navigated them through the night traffic. "Plus, how would it look if a minute branch of the S.T.A.R.S. – from a backwater mountain city like Raccoon PA – resurfaced with their accusations of foul play within Umbrella, and none of the other branches of the organization backed them up?"

"So you see the problem," Captain Redfield said, still flipping through the folder. "There's no one we can really turn to. In fact, the only person we _can_ rely on is the S.T.A.R.S. Director, Marco Palmieri. You've probably read his name in the papers – he's had a lot to say about Raccoon since his return to the states. There's not a chance Umbrella could get to him – no way in hell."

"Bad news is, even Marco will be skeptical at our story," Barry added, speaking for the first time. Even his voice was powerful. "After all, our story _does _sound like bullshit." He half–turned and looked back at Justin, a grim smile on his face. "You can identify, can't you, kid?"

Justin took a deep breath. "But where exactly do I fit into all this? I'm just a patrol cop."

"Well, Umbrella got wind that your friend Jonah knew shit about what they were up to," Chris said. "Probably through their contact in Sheena. I'm sure they weren't too happy with you either – especially since you witnessed the effects of the virus firsthand. So, they sent some of their bribed S.T.A.R.S. to get their hands dirty. They must have tracked him to your house, but since they failed to recover the evidence they'll most likely resort to using their FBI puppets to erase all your records and claim you were killed in the line of duty, or something. Bribe people to keep their mouths shut – what they do best. Meanwhile they'll keep trying to find you, although I'm sure they hope that they scared you so much that you won't come back."

Justin thought of Jonah sprawled lifelessly on his kitchen floor, partially buried beneath Jimmy Stanton. "Fuck that," he said with a righteous type of vigor, nearly choking on the grief in his throat.

Chris nodded appreciatively, craning his neck to look at Jeff. "I like him. He'll do."

Justin held up his hands, suddenly uneasy. "Hold on there. I'll do _what_? I understand – I know too much to just leave you guys now, but that doesn't mean I'm part of your 'inner circle' or anything like that."

No one said anything, and no one met his gaze.

"Look, I want Umbrella to pay as much as you do," he said shakily. "But –"

"No one else is going to fight them, Cantori, and you can't do it alone," Chris snapped. "Where the hell else are you going to go?"

Justin swallowed, grinding his teeth. It felt like standing on a ledge, but jumping wouldn't bring solitude and neither would taking a step back. Up was down, left would lead back to right, and it wouldn't make any goddamned difference what he chose because he was dead either way.

"So you guys somehow found out about me being attacked," he bit out finally, resigned.

Jill responded immediately, businesslike – probably happy to discourage further discussion of the matter. "Since we've been keeping our eyes on Umbrella dealings in Sheena, we happened to come across an operation order that had been issued to the Sheena S.T.A.R.S. – barely two hours ago. Umbrella had blacklisted you and your friend."

Jeff picked up the story. "Right, so naturally, I – being the best friend a man can have – insisted that we discreetly step in and pick you up. Obviously, our plan was to secret you away before the S.T.A.R.S. arrived, maybe fake a suicide or something to throw of suspicion, but it didn't exactly pan out that way. And you held your own anyway, so I shouldn't have even worried."

Justin sighed. "You got there just in time. I – I killed almost ten people." His conscience had been picking at him since his escape, more than ever now that he acknowledged its existence.

An empathic sort of silence fell, hollow and vast, during which time Barry drove and the passengers gazed silently out the windows, each lost in thought. Justin turned his gun over in his hands, contemplating whether he'd be acquitted by a jury or condemned as a murderer for his actions. But at the same time, he already knew he could never stand trial like a normal American citizen – not without putting his very life in jeopardy. He was an outlaw and his rights had been suspended: he was an animal, a thing hunted and hated, wanted for the purpose of destruction.

For all intents and purposes, he – like the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. – did not exist.

Chris finally broke the reverie. "Looks like you're pretty cut up, Cantori," he said, craning his neck to look in the back seat again.

"Yeah," Justin murmured, not really paying attention. "They shot out the windows."

Jeff suddenly remembered the first aid kit in his lap and immediately began digging for disinfectant.

* * *

They drove for an hour, then two, mostly in silence from thereon out. Barry finally took an exit that branched off of 93 and meandered into a run–down little Mormon town. The darkness hid the welcome sign, so Justin was clueless as to where exactly they were, much less where they were headed, but he did know that they were still travelling north. For a further twenty minutes of silence, they took back roads and detours until Barry brought the sedan to a halt across the street from an old apartment complex in a dirty, unfamiliar neighborhood.

"Everybody out," he said, climbing out of the car. As the big man stretched on the sidewalk, Justin caught sight of the well–kept Colt Python revolver jutting out of the big man's belt before Barry adjusted his shirt to conceal the weapon again.

Chris opened the back door for them. Justin climbed out and waited for the others, shivering on the pavement beneath the unseasonably chill wind.

Barry came around the side of the car and popped the trunk with the keychain remote. He bent inside to lift the covering on the spare tire well and drew out a pair of old Kansas license plates – probably expired. Turning, he grinned at Justin.

"Can't be too careful," he said.

It took him less than three minutes to change the plates on the sedan while the others kept watch for observers, and then Chris led the ex–S.T.A.R.S. and Justin towards the cracked front steps leading into the building. Once inside, they avoided the desk clerk's suspicious stare and took a molding, peeling stairwell to the third floor landing, which looked out over the street they had just left.

Justin was uncomfortably aware that all the others were clutching concealed weapons, ready to use them if need be. Having handed his gun over to Jeff for concealment, he felt naked by contrast, wearing only jeans, no shoes or socks, and no shirt – not that additional clothing would protect him from bullets.

_Or a virus._

Chris stopped at number 16, and knocked four times. The others stood watch – Jill at the railing, gazing down into the cramped but decidedly deserted street. Justin saw a shadow pass over the other side of the peephole as someone looked out, then heard the rasp of metal on metal as dead bolts and chains were removed.

The door flew open.

Chris and Barry quickly ushered the others into the room, passing the young girl who had opened the door, and Jill slammed it closed behind them. There was the grating of a key in the lock, and then Valentine collapsed onto a moth–eaten sofa and let out a barely audible sigh of relief.

The room was decent–sized for an apartment but the air was stuffy. Two sofas and an armchair were the only pieces of furniture that belonged to the room aside from an immensely heavy coffee table. The yellow walls were cracked in places, and there was a ragged hole in the plaster beside a phone jack. Rooms branched off on either side, and straight ahead was the kitchen as Justin came to stand in the middle of the room: the place the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. called home.

"I hate this fucking place," Chris muttered, noticing Justin's surveillance. "But it was the best we could get, so I guess I shouldn't complain."

Justin nodded absently, more focused on the young girl who had let them in. She was sizing him up in return, perhaps unsure what to make of this half–naked stranger. She was almost a full head shorter than he was, with wide, dark eyes and a small nose. Her petite face framed by short, mousy hair.

"Who's this?" she asked of Chris, and although her voice was girlish, her tone was mature. Justin's first impression of her youthful innocence was instantly shattered. "Is he with us?"

Jeff clapped a hand on Justin's bare shoulder. "He's a cop, and a damn good one. We can trust him."

The girl seemed to relax physically, but Justin could still see distrust in her eyes. By way of greeting, he offered a small smile and she returned it somewhat less than enthusiastically.

Chris spoke up again, this time addressing a man slightly taller than Justin who had just come out of the room to their left. His hair hung low into his cool eyes, and he carried himself in such a way that was indicative of either military or police training.

"Leon," Chris said, "see if you can't find our friend a shirt and some shoes. I don't know what's all in the drawers."

Leon nodded without speaking, gave Justin a fleeting look of suspicion, then left to the other adjoining room.

In spite of his knowledge of the affair, Justin couldn't say he cared for the way everyone was treating him. He was a goddamn cop, one of the _good_ guys, but they were all treating him like an unpredictable criminal – like they thought he was an Umbrella spy. He was about to voice this disgruntled opinion to Jeff – who had sank into a folding chair and was massaging his eyes with a thumb and forefinger – but at that moment, the girl took a step closer.

"You're awfully cut up," she said with genuine concern. "Did they give you anything? Did they clean you up at _all_?"

Justin nodded once, automatically. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Barry chuckled wryly as he re–entered the room from the kitchen, carrying a Poland Springs and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Don't worry, Becca – we took care of him. We know how to use band–aids."

Chris came to stand between Justin and the girl. "Rebecca, this is Sergeant Justin Cantori. He's a cop with the Sheena Police Force. Cantori, this is Rebecca Chambers. She's our field doctor and biochemist."

Jeff coughed into his hand, something that sounded suspiciously like "_genius_". Rebecca shot him a look that was simultaneously flattered and annoyed. Embarrassed, even.

Justin smiled thinly and shook the girl's tiny hand, distinctly uncomfortable with how young she was. She couldn't be any more than 20 – maybe not even – yet she was as involved as the rest.

Chris jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the man he had called Leon as that individual returned, a pair of worn–out red Chucks in one hand and a Polo over his shoulder. "That's Leon Kennedy," the acting–captain said. "He was with Raccoon Police, but has been working with us underground ever since the disaster."

Leon nodded coolly and tossed the shirt. "Might be a little big for you."

Justin missed the throw, and the shirt landed on his head, covering his face. He yanked it off with an awkward grin. "Thanks."

"You'd do well to treat him with respect, Leo," Chris said matter–of–factly, pointedly. "This guy took out an entire squad of Bravo S.T.A.R.S. alone and in close quarters."

The phone rang suddenly from the next room.

Leon's face went deathly serious, and he, Barry, and Chris left the room together in a rush, without a word spoken. Justin didn't think much of it until he heard the answering machine click on: "Yeah, hi, this is Mark Buelling. Uh, I'm not available right now, but I'd appreciate it if you would leave your name and number so I can call you back. Thanks. Bye."

The cop turned to Jeff, jerking a thumb inquisitively at the kitchen.

Jeff beckoned to his friend to sit down, so the cop complied, tugging the shirt over his head as he did so. "Umbrella's been looking for us pretty thoroughly," Jeff said. "The press has declared us dead, but that has just played into Umbrella's hand – assuming, of course, that they didn't plant the misinformation themselves. Either way, it doesn't matter. See, now they have the freedom if they _do _find us to just… do away with us. If the public had their eyes on us, it would be a lot harder for Umbrella to touch us."

Trailing off, he shrugged. "Anyway, Umbrella's still predominately focused on Europe – they still think we're hiding somewhere in France – but they're worried about potential supporters here on the home front. So, we're still in a tough situation. On one hand, we've got to keep going by different aliases and moving around – we haven't stayed in the same place for longer than a week in months. If we're found alive, then Umbrella will send strike teams – almost definitely S.T.A.R.S. – just like they did to you. On the other hand, though, if we _don't_ show up eventually, then Umbrella will remain free to waltz around mixing their chemicals at random."

He sighed, lapsing into silence, and for the first time that evening, Justin fully understood the dilemma and how serious it was for them to remain hidden. That the S.T.A.R.S. had successfully done so for so long and so effectively was something in and of itself.

"Imagine what efforts Umbrella's expending just to find us," Jeff said with a chuckle. "We've had a whole year to gather information and evidence, and that's putting pressure on them to snuff us out once and for all – before we get too powerful for them to handle."

Justin tugged on his borrowed shoes, thinking. "So I take it you won't be here in Nevada long then."

Jill seated herself on the sofa beside Justin. "We'll be getting the hell out of here as soon as we pull off this operation," she said. She seemed much more open towards him now, although he wasn't sure just what had changed since the car ride. "We'll be safe here for a little while – unless someone takes particular notice. Besides – like Jeff said – Umbrella still thinks we're in Europe."

Justin began lacing up the Chucks absently.

Jeff chuckled suddenly and leaned forward. Justin noticed the S.T.A.R.S. insignia displayed proudly on the breast pocket of his t-shirt, a badge of merit. "It's a complicated history," he said, apparently interpreting his friend's silence as confusion. "Don't worry about it – Chris wants you in, so your head'll be filled with so much crap that you'll wish you'd been left at your house with the Alphas."

A moment later Chris and Leon reentered the room. The acting–captain appeared decidedly more cheerful than he had all evening, although that happiness was still tinged with a grim sort of firmness. "That was David," he announced, answering the unspoken questions of those gathered in the sitting room. "He and John are on their way here with Marco and Claire right now. The AD is with them too."

"And then there's the bad news." Barry's announcement killed some of the smile on Chris's face. "Marco's not in good shape."

"What happened?" Jill asked sharply.

Leon sank into a folding chair and blew out a heavy sigh, causing his bangs to dance over his eyes. "We all wanted to know what that 'Top Secret' Mission over in Turkey was all about, right? The one we couldn't find out any shit about?"

There were nods from everyone in the room excluding Justin.

Leon continued in turn. "Well it turns out that everything was totally staged. Marco doesn't believe it, but it's pretty obvious that Umbrella orchestrated the whole thing up to get him out of the country while they asserted their hold on the S.T.A.R.S. back home. We just found out that they even started funding for Marco's early retirement – in case their plan to bump him off failed. They must have known that there was no possible way to bribe him – he's too devoted to the S.T.A.R.S. to be a sellout."

"They should have known that Marco would never retire that early anyway," Barry said thoughtfully. "If anyone would wait until sixty to retire, it's Marco."

Leon continued as though he hadn't heard. "While Marco and his team were at one of the check–points in Turkey, Umbrella teams surrounded them. Marco took a bullet in the gut, but he's going to make it. Some lieutenant named Bradley got him out, and they escaped together, but the rest of the team wasn't so lucky."

Rebecca was sitting on the arm of the sofa, close to Jill. She brushed dark bangs out of her eyes. "Are they sure he's going to be okay?"

Leon shrugged, perhaps annoyed by the question. "I'm not God."

Chris folded his hands behind his head. "Marco's got an excellent doctor in New York – used to be a medic with the SEALS. He was treated in Turkey and went to see the specialist immediately upon getting back to the States, so he's going to make it."

"Goddamn," Jill said weakly, putting a hand to her mouth. "Everything is hinging on his support. We were _that close_ to losing everything forever…"

"We're _still_ close, Valentine," Chris replied, offering a thin smile – a smile that might once have carried some type of meaning behind it, but which had long since gone cold. "We're always close. It's a fucking delicate house of cards we've got going here."

Jeff snorted a laugh, but it was more out of disbelief than actual humor. "And one of these days," he said, "someone's bound to shake the table."


	9. Aspirations

**Chapter 8: Aspirations

* * *

**Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. Safehouse  
Couver, Nevada  
16 July, 1999  
2209 hrs (10:09pm)**

* * *

**

During the next hour, Justin and Jeff caught up on time lost, able to talk freely for the first time that night – for the first time in almost ten months. Chris Redfield dug some dusty cans of sodas out of the refrigerator and distributed them, and the S.T.A.R.S. all introduced themselves in detail to the man who had suddenly become one of them. Oddly enough, the awkwardness surrounding the circumstances faded quickly.

_Almost like holidays at the in–laws',_ Justin thought wryly, accepting a Pepsi from the acting–captain. _Gradually the small talk breaks the ice and you find yourself relaxing._

Conversation tended to flit around family and background but never quite settled there. Understandably, it was difficult for the ex–S.T.A.R.S. officers to discuss loved ones whom they could never risk contacting. However, the only obvious commonality they each shared was the situation in which they found themselves, and there was not an individual in the room who wanted to discuss that topic any more than necessary. There would be plenty of time to expound upon it later.

At 10:35, there was a knock at the door. Everyone tensed; weapons were drawn. Chris nodded to Barry and Leon in succession and the three of them went to the door together.

Justin stood quickly, reaching for his gun, which he had stuck in the back of his jeans. He didn't need to be told that – however unlikely – cops or even Umbrella people could potentially be congregated outside the door. Of course, they were really one and the same, so it wouldn't make any difference.

Chris peered out the peephole for a long moment, then stepped back and flung open the door, a smile growing on his face. A girl with a ponytail hanging down almost to the middle of her back burst through the door before Chris had even opened it all the way and threw herself into his arms. Under the assault, Chris stumbled backwards and nearly toppled.

He pried the girl's arms from around him, grinning. "Okay, Claire, _okay_!"

"Hug me like you're my brother!" she growled, holding onto him tightly.

Still smiling like a fool, Chris enfolded her tightly, lifting her several inches off the ground, and then set her back down heavily. "Happy? Now get out of the way so everyone can come in."

"Shut up." Claire kissed him loudly on the cheek, then stepped back to clear the doorway.

The first man to enter behind Claire was tall and thin. He carried in his stance the unmistakable presence of someone in authority – not an irritating arrogance, but the reassuring confidence of a natural leader. Dark, wavy hair was in need of a trim, and his handsome face was blue around the lips with stubble. He was pushing a wheelchair, in which sat the man whom Justin could only assume was the S.T.A.R.S. Director, Marco Palmieri.

Palmieri's skin had recently bronzed from significant exposure to the sunlight. His hair seemed too black to be natural, but his precisely trimmed goatee was mottled with silver. There was light in his eyes, undimmed by the deep lines etched on his forehead and above his prominent cheekbones. He had the look of a man who had aged too much in a very short period of time.

Closely following the pair was a shorter man with a brown beard and a wide, boyish grin. Despite the fact that they looked or acted nothing alike, Justin's immediate impression was that this man was a second, shorter Barry Burton. But maybe it was just the beard. A fourth man with piercing grey eyes and sandy brown hair followed next. His countenance seemed gaunt and unhealthy, and somehow he seemed immensely uncomfortable being present at the meeting, as though he didn't belong. No one greeted him directly, at any rate. Following them were two more men and one woman. These three were dressed casually, as were the rest – in jeans, t-shirts, and sweat jackets. They stood back hesitantly from the rest of the group, looking around uncomfortably.

The moment Chris had closed the door behind them, greetings were exchanged in uncharacteristically loud voices, involving hugs and laughter – _real _laughter. Maybe this was the first time many of them had laughed in a long time. Chris and Barry spoke warmly with the man behind Palmieri's wheelchair, and the rest were greeting one another in comradely fashion. Amid the chatter, Chris's sister, Claire, disappeared into the back room with Leon in tow.

Justin hung back while the rest of the S.T.A.R.S. greeted the newcomers warmly, as brothers and sisters it seemed. Granted, he felt out of place, but he was comfortable being the outcast – these men and women deserved this time for themselves, and he did not want to get in the way. He waited patiently, leaning on the doorframe leading into the kitchen, watching.

It was the man with the scruffy beard who noticed the cop–turned–rebel first.

"Hey, Chris – who's this guy?" he demanded, and for the first time that evening, the question was normal and not tinged with suspicion. Either he was far too trusting, or he had strong faith in the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S.' choice of company.

Chris dropped hands onto the shorter man's shoulders. "He's a thinking human being, John. Ask him yourself."

John nodded like this was some type of revelation. "Right, _right_. I'm just so used to seeing undead things that I sometimes forget what real humans look like."

The joke was off–color, and Justin saw Chris's amused expression harden, but John – like any comedian – glossed over the bad gag wordlessly and extended his hand to Justin, who accepted it. "John Andrews," he said winningly. "Ex–Alpha with the Exeter S.T.A.R.S."

"Justin Cantori," the cop replied. "I was with the Sheena Police Department, but Umbrella wants me dead, so I'm stuck with you guys now."

John grinned. "Yeah, that sucks."

Which aspect he was actually referencing was unclear, but Justin didn't press the matter. On one hand, he appreciated the man's humoristic approach to the crisis, but on the other, he disapproved of how casually John was able to make light of the epidemic's victims.

"So how are you connected with Raccoon?" Justin asked, partly curious, partly to change the subject. "Exeter isn't exactly in Raccoon's backyard."

John nodded slowly, like a metronome. "True – very observant. Well, I'm not a storyteller, so you'll forgive me if I postpone that tale of woe until later." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "…when someone _else_ can share it."

The man was certainly difficult to read. The distinguishing line between joking and seriousness was hard to decipher; it seemed as though John was in a constant state of both. Clapping Justin buddy–like on the shoulder, the shorter man left to find someone with whom he wanted to talk, but he did not leave Justin alone for long. Rebecca the teenage genius filled the space that he'd occupied barely a minute later. She fixed Justin with a strange look, smiling slightly – like she expected him to say something.

"What?" he asked after a moment.

She shrugged casually, inclining her head in John's direction. "You just met Mr. Hi–I–Joke–Around–For–a–Living Asshole. I'm here to counsel you now."

Justin snorted a laugh, easily spotting John in the small crowd. He was loudly telling Chris about some legal trouble the Exeter branch had been going through during the past year ever since four of their agents – including the Captain – had mysteriously disappeared.

"He's funny," Justin said shortly, still unsure whether or not he actually found John amusing or not. Somehow "funny" was still appropriate, because it can also mean "strange". "You know him well?"

"A little," she admitted, leaning on the opposite doorjamb. "Back last August, I was sent on a top–secret mission with John and Captain David Trapp – the tall British guy over there – to raid an Umbrella lab in Maine near Exeter. Things didn't go so hot to tell you the truth, but we managed to escape with some specimens."

Justin looked over at her curiously. "What happened to them? We can't just present them as evidence and –?"

He stopped speaking because she was already shaking her head. "The Philly S.T.A.R.S. had a hand in aiding our escape from the lab, and they took the things we brought up from Caliban Cove back to their HQ." Had it not been for her wry tone of voice, this would still have sounded like good news. "Unfortunately, Umbrella had already begun their takeover of the S.T.A.R.S. organization way back in June, and when they placed their moles inside of Philly, barely a week after the Maine operation…"

She sighed, looking over at him with big, sad eyes – almost like a lost puppy. "They were able to seize the evidence. Obviously, it disappeared off the map."

Justin pursed his lips against the sinking sensation in his stomach. This was impossible – all of it. If Umbrella could do all that, then what were their limitations? If their collective arms were _that_ long, then it wasn't paranoid at all to expect them to discover this meeting tonight,

"I know what you're thinking," Rebecca said softly, drawing his gaze again. All of a sudden, it felt like she was seeing through him – uncomfortably so. "You're wondering just how all of this is going to work – how we're going to live until tomorrow."

Well, when he thought about it, yeah. That _was_ true. He said nothing.

She shifted her stance, putting her back against the doorframe and her arms across her small breasts. "Well, the reality is that we all wonder the same thing – day to day, minute to minute. We're not certain of anything, really, but we just know we have to keep going."

He'd heard this message more than once already – maybe from Jill, he couldn't remember. But hearing it again seemed to drive the meaning deeper. And coming from Rebecca, whom he had initially suspected to disapprove of his presence, it meant even more.

They had just enough time to live, just enough air to breathe. And as the days went by successively, the S.T.A.R.S. seemed to be gaining more and more. It was like faith. Belief. Trusting God.

_Something I'm not doing enough presently._ Justin smiled wearily, releasing some of the demons in his chest. A few lingered of course, but it was suddenly a little easier to breathe. "You're right. I guess I'm entitled to being a _little_ scared, right?"

"Scared?" she scoffed, rocking back her head. "I'm fucking _terrified_ – I have been ever since Raccoon. And Caliban was no picnic either."

By the sudden pain that came into her eyes, Justin could tell that the latter experience had somehow been much the worse for wear on her, but it was too personal a question to ask so soon.

Rebecca shuddered as though chilly, then reached out and boldly took his hand. "C'mon – I'll introduce you to everyone."

And so they went, forging into the crowd of S.T.A.R.S. and outcasts. Rebecca acted the part of mediator, introducing Justin to her fellows and vice versa. The numerous introductions were casual and to the point, but Justin was able to obtain significant background information about the family into which he had just been adopted.

The energetic Claire Redfield was Chris's recently turned twenty–year–old sister. She, like Justin, had been thrown unwittingly into the Umbrella mess. She apparently had a thing with Leon, although the romance was strained due to the circumstances dictating their current lifestyles. But then again, working in such close proximity to someone under such circumstances was bound to forge some type of bond, even if it was just camaraderie.

The tall British man was David Trapp, former captain of the Exeter S.T.A.R.S. In tandem with his disciplined mannerisms, he had the looks of a movie star, and his clipped accent suited his somehow noble appearance. As Rebecca had alluded, David had led the raid on the Caliban Cove laboratory in Maine the previous August.

The three previously unidentified men and woman were members of the New York branch of the S.T.A.R.S. team. The first man was short but well–built with black hair and beard; his name was Fred Eyong. The other man was named David Peréz. He was stocky, standing a few inches taller than Eyong. His most outstanding features were his cruelly bent hawk–beak nose, his shaved head, and the perpetually angry stare with which he X–rayed the room. Melissa Mason was the young woman accompanying the pair, a field medic and rookie scout for the NY branch. Her red–blonde hair was cut to chin–length, there was a butterfly tattoo on her left forearm, and her eyes were so pale one could have assumed she was blind.

It was the man in the wheelchair, however, that Justin was most eager to meet. As he had presumed, the invalid was the S.T.A.R.S. director and – according to Chris Redfield – the only person who could really help them. At only 5' 5", Marco Palmieri wasn't all that impressive to look at, especially confined to a wheelchair. Certainly, he was a handsome man, but his physique wasn't the quality which demanded respect: it was his penetrating stare that earned him his deference. Palmieri was soft–spoken and clearly preferred to listen while the others conversed. While everyone else was chatting amiably, Chris and David engaged him in a long, serious exchange that no one else heard.

Just as everyone was getting comfortable, there was another knock on the door. It was as effective as a gunshot: the entire room fell instantly silent, instantly tense.

Justin looked to Rebecca but found no comfort in her frown, which she directed in turn at Chris. Meanwhile, Leon and Barry had already crossed to the door and the former was gazing through the peephole. He turned to look back at Chris, holding up three fingers. The dubious expression on his face

Justin frowned. His heart was beating extremely fast as he reached for the handgun in the back of his waistband. _Three people. Unknowns._

Chris drew his own Beretta as he made for the door. Silence clutched the occupants of the room as the captain peered out the peephole. Then, he began unclasping the locks and deadbolts and threw open the door, keeping the handgun hidden behind his back. Leon flattened himself against the wall behind the door, readying the H&K hidden beneath his shirt, and Barry stood imposingly behind Chris, blocking the interior of the room from view.

"Hey, Chris," a voice said from the other side of the human barrier. "Burton."

Justin had taken up a position beside Jeff, just outside of the kitchen, and from there he could see past Barry's big shoulder to the landing outside the apartment. An additional two men and one woman stood on the threshold, all dressed in casual wear. The first man of the new party – apparently the speaker – had extended his hand to Chris, smiling.

Chris accepted the outstretched hand. "Garrett! I didn't recognize you." He quickly stepped back, beckoning the newcomers inside. "Come in, come in."

The three new arrivals crowded into the already cramped living room and Chris shut the door behind them. The man Chris had called Garrett shrugged off the brown leather jacket he wore and folded it over his right arm.

"Quite the party," he commented, eyeing each individual present, seemingly undeterred by the silence. "I recognize some of these. Are the rest S.T.A.R.S.?"

Chris jerked his head in Justin's direction. "One Sheena police officer, one from Raccoon –" he gestured toward Leon "– and my sister." He made a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at Claire.

Garrett nodded in greeting at these three in turn. "Sorry we're late," he said lightly, turning back to Chris and Barry. "Our flight from Columbus hit a weather delay."

"Not a problem," Chris said, turning to address the group as a whole. "For those of you who don't know him, this is Captain Blake of the Philadelphia S.T.A.R.S. He and his team have aided us in the past."

Justin turned to Rebecca, who was again standing beside him, as talk gradually resumed. "I thought you said Umbrella owned Philly."

She was watching Blake as he greeted Palmieri with a handshake and indecipherable words. "They do. I was under the impression that all the Philadelphia S.T.A.R.S. were dirty, but Chris wouldn't have disclosed this location to anyone he didn't trust completely."

Justin felt uneasy, especially about Blake's three friends, who – like Palmieri's subordinates – hung back from the rest, conversing quietly in their own, tight–knit group. "Could he be wrong?" he asked hesitantly.

Rebecca seemed to be asking herself the same question. "It's possible, but Chris is an ass about security. He's always been overly cautious – even before Raccoon. I just don't understand why he didn't let the rest of us know."

Justin sought Chris in the crowd, found him speaking aside to Jeff. "Maybe he was afraid you would all react this way."

He didn't mean it to sound accusatory, and Rebecca didn't seem to take it as such. "Yeah, maybe," she said. "I'm sure we'll hear the whole story shortly."

She left moments later to consult Jill, leaving Justin alone with his nervous suspicions.

It was barely ten minutes later, however, that Chris raised his voice, addressing the entirety of the group. "Well, if everyone would make themselves comfortable, we have some very important issues to discuss tonight."

Talk died away almost instantly, and everyone sought an empty seat. Justin dropped into a folding chair between Jeff and David Peréz of the New York branch, Chris took the folding chair directly across from Palmieri's wheelchair, and the rest gathered around, filling the sofa and armchair while others seated themselves on the hardwood floor. Only the enigmatic, wide–eyed man remained on his feet, leaning against the wall as though standing was sapping the last of the strength from his body.

Suddenly, the humming of the refrigerator in the kitchen was the only sound in the room.

Chris cleared his throat and began hesitantly, as though unsure exactly where to begin. "I'm sure most of you are probably still unclear as to exactly why we're having this meeting. You've all heard the reports, what the newspapers have said. Most of you thought that we were dead, and I apologize for all the secrecy. We would have contacted everyone earlier, but…"

He trailed off momentarily, fumbling for words. "We could only trust communications with Director Palmieri himself. It just wasn't safe for us to be out in the open. It's _still _not safe. You'll understand why soon enough. Anyway, we've gathered you all here tonight to tell you on thing: forget _everything_ you've heard about the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. team – it's lies, all of it. The newspapers have made us out to be alcoholics and users, completely trashing our reputations. A hell of a lot of correspondents insisted that we're not fit to be special police. Well, it doesn't matter anymore, because – in everything but the literal respect – we're _dead_."

Chris licked his lips and looked around the room, making eye contact with each individual, drawing support from the other Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. He blew out a nervous sort of chuckle. "There's not really a better way to do this, so I'm going to be completely blunt. All cards on the table. I'm going to throw out an idea that none of you will believe, that none of you will _want_ to believe. Trust me, none of us want to believe it either."

He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Umbrella Pharmaceutical Corporation… is behind everything that went on in Raccoon, from the false claims against us, to the loss of the six officers on the S.T.A.R.S. staff, to the ultimate destruction of the city. _They started the epidemic._"

Utter silence met this accusation, like the oxygen had been drained out of the room. Justin found himself unconsciously clenching his teeth and forced his jaw to relax. Beside him, Jeff was surveying the other S.T.A.R.S. through narrowed eyes, and Jill – across the circle from them – was looking determinedly at the floor.

Chris looked up at Marco Palmieri, perhaps waiting for him to say something, but the director merely held Redfield's gaze, revealing nothing. The acting–captain somehow seemed to gain encouragement from the other man's stare, and he continued in a firmer tone of voice.

"They tried to get us out of the picture by suspending the branch. Over the decades leading up to the Raccoon incident, they'd been developing footholds in various governmental branches to give them the leg–up they'd need in case of discovery or an accident. When we came out to the press about what we'd found, they tipped their hand and used their people in the S.T.A.R.S. to disband our unit. But that wouldn't keep us quiet and Umbrella knew that. They've tried to kill us all because we knew the truth."

He stopped again, shaking his head at no one in particular. "Look, I know how it sounds. I know it sounds ridiculous. Believe me, if I was in your shoes listening to me, I wouldn't believe me either. But for the time being – just for now – let's assume that I _am_ telling the truth."

Licking his lips to wet them, he panned the room with his gaze. "You've all heard of Raccoon Syndrome – the plague that swept through the Raccoon Valley, correct?"

Nods from everyone in the circle.

Chris continued, slowly and deliberately. "Raccoon Syndrome is a virus. But it is not a naturally–occurring agent. It is the collaborated effort of teams across the globe, genetically engineered through decades of research by a secretly funded branch of the Umbrella Corporation called White Umbrella, which specializes in bioweapons. Umbrella calls this epidemic the T-Virus, or the "progenitor". It turns people into exactly what the newspapers have claimed: _zombies_."

Justin's face tightened in a wince. Calling the infected "zombies" not only made everything seem a million times more ridiculous, but also reduced the poor innocents to nothing more than monsters. _Lack of a better term,_ he thought grimly.

"That's all fact," Chris continued, distracting Justin from his thoughts. The acting–captain no longer seemed nervous or even perturbed by the perfect silence in the room. He was committed to telling the story, regardless of the outcome. "Again, I understand how ridiculous it sounds, but for the time being, let's consider it indisputable. Now, let me take you all back to July of 1998, when this all began."

He looked to the various members of the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. seated around the room. "My team, please feel free to add in any details that I've forgotten. Bear with me. Okay. This whole thing began with an occurrence in Raccoon, a series of brutal slayings that the police could not put a stop to. They put a city–wide curfew into effect and set up police blockades of the Raccoon Woods where the majority of the homicides had occurred. Things got pretty serious. July 20th was the day the sixteenth Raccoon victim was killed, and that was the day we were called into action. There were a lot of complaints from the general populace that we hadn't gone in before the death toll had risen so high, but we simply hadn't been authorized to move. We thought it was simply politics.

"On July 23rd, Captain Wesker sent in the Bravos to do a flyby of the Raccoon Forest, specifically sector 22c – the only area that had remained unchecked during the investigation. Their helicopter suffered engine failure and they crash–landed into the Raccoon Forest, several hundred yards outside of 22c. Captain Wesker scrambled the Alphas and we immediately went in after Bravo team. As we were sweeping the crash site, we were attacked by a pack of wild dogs. We didn't know it at the time, but the Bravos had survived the crash and been attacked too. They'd fled to the Spencer Estate – a supposedly abandoned mansion built in the middle of the woods, smack in the center of that one unchecked area."

Chris paused to clear his throat, and the muscles in his jaw ticked with emotion. "Joseph Frost, our communications guru, was dragged down by some of the dogs – before we even knew what was happening. They tore him apart in seconds, and we couldn't do anything for him… We had no choice but to get the hell out of there. Four of us made it to the Spencer Estate alive – Captain Wesker, Barry, Jill, and myself. Brad Vickers, our pilot, had already taken the chopper up and was circling the forest, waiting for us to call him in, but there was some type of interference in the area and our radios weren't working…"

He took a deep breath. "The dogs chased us all the way to the mansion. We thought they were just wolves or something at the time, but I think it's safe to assume they had somehow contracted the T-Virus – by accident or as test subjects, whatever. Once inside the estate, we immediately set about trying to find a way to contact Vickers and the Chief of Raccoon police, Brian Irons, for backup. However, we immediately discovered that the mansion was far from abandoned, and far from safe. The place was infested with people who were already dead, but moving and walking around. They… _ate _flesh. Living or dead."

Chris shuddered, and they all felt the chill in the room more acutely. The horrific tale, however unreal, had robbed them all of breath.

"It was in the basement levels of the estate that we discovered the White Umbrella laboratory. There had been some type of accident and the T-Virus had escaped, infecting the entire population there. The zombies were all Umbrella workers who had been living in the 'abandoned' estate and working on the virus program, safe from any prying eyes."

There was a definitive note of anger in his voice now, both external and self–critical. "Turns out Captain Wesker was one of them – had been all along. He was a consultant researcher for the company and pretty high in their chain of command. He'd been assigned to Raccoon for cover–up, and he facilitated _every_thing – from keeping the S.T.A.R.S. out of the investigation until the 20th, to sabotaging the Bravos' chopper, to keeping the police searching in all the wrong places of the woods for the killers. See, all the original murders in the Valley were the result of White Umbrella research gone bad. The murderers were really just virus carriers that had escaped the lab beneath the mansion when the entire place had succumbed to Umbrella's own disease. The company finally decided to activate Captain Wesker, and his mission prerogatives included using us S.T.A.R.S. as scapegoats for the catastrophe _and_ as instruments to retrieve valuable research specimens for the Umbrella higher–ups."

Chris sighed heavily, shaking his head in disgust. "We were blind not to see it coming. Barely three weeks before the murders, he's appointed our captain? Never associated with any of us outside of work? Kissed up to Irons while the rest of us openly hated him? The warning flags should have gone up. Hell, I should have…"

He stopped himself from saying the words that had clearly been haunting him ever since the incident. Reorienting his thoughts, he began again. "Wesker had also been given a special mission. Umbrella was housing a certain specimen in the Spencer Estate facility – the crown jewel of their research project in Raccoon. They called it Tyrant."

Justin recognized the name immediately from the folder Jonah had recovered from the Granford House. The image of the monster, locked in indefinite hibernation, stirred restlessly in his memory, like a dream skirting the edges of wakeful remembrance.

"The virus that created the monster was what Umbrella had sent Wesker to retrieve, if possible, or destroy – if necessary. Instead, he released the Tyrant on us and activated the laboratory's emergency self–destruct sequence. We barely managed to escape. Vickers finally zeroed in on our coordinates and dropped the helicopter onto the roof of the mansion to pick us up. He was just in time."

"Once we got to safety, we immediately approached Irons and police authorities with our discovery. But Umbrella was too smart for us. They were more then one step ahead. As it turns out, Wesker wasn't their only contact in Raccoon. They paid Irons a shitload to keep us quiet, and there were plenty of media officials and city council members in their pockets too. No one believed anything we said. With no way to warn the general public, we were left with no choice but to get out of Raccoon before Umbrella came after us. It was only a matter of time before the virus got into the city's sewer systems, and from there into peoples' homes…"

He slapped his thighs as punctuation to the tale. "So, there you have it. That's the story of how it all began." Looking to Palmieri, he continued, "I think you all know the rest of the story from there, if not details. We've been running and hiding since then, gathering information when we can, sleeping with one eye open."

There was utter silence as the acting-captain ceased speaking, and then Palmieri leaned forward in his wheelchair. "Thank you for your testimony, Redfield," he began. "Of course, we've all heard varying accounts, but obviously none of them quite as horrific as yours. You will, therefore, excuse me for being incredulous."

He sandwiched his hands and pressed them to his lips. "I will not argue the morality of corporate minds. No great industry has clean hands – after all, everyone wants to get rich. Everyone wants prestige."

The director hesitated, then shook his head. "That being said, I am obviously skeptical that a company like Umbrella, who have so many partners and binding contracts, could have engineered a virus without _any_one knowing about it. I mean, just think about all the other pharmaceutical companies Umbrella's associated with, not to mention their board of governors, stockholders, business associates, and government contacts. I automatically _assume_ things like fraud and espionage, but a foster–child epidemic? Information on any type of bioweapons study would have leaked, no matter how hard they tried to keep it a secret. And, on top of that, I find it extremely hard to believe that they can tamper with human anatomy to turn people into monsters, much less engineer a plague."

Chris's eyes hardened visibly. He sighed and rubbed his jaw with his right hand – maybe he had been expecting this reaction. "I know it seems unreal, sir. The implications are almost endless. But you'll just have to take our word for it – for now. Honestly, we have no solid evidence against the company except for a few documents that we stole from the lab beneath the Spencer Estate. However, these reports don't offer much proof – after all, we could have devised them ourselves to trick everyone."

The acting–captain indicated Garrett Blake, who was sitting in a folding chair behind Barry Burton. "Captain Blake can attest that his team found material evidence – canisters from a White Umbrella lab in Caliban Cove that contained viral strains and bodies of some Umbrella monsters – but we've lost access to these. S.T.A.R.S. working for Umbrella reclaimed them – probably some ruse about national security or biohazard research. But considering the degenerative nature of the T–Virus, I'm fairly certain that the bodies have all melted to hell anyway. Long story short, no – we can't prove anything."

He spread his arms and passed his gaze over the officers in attendance. "If you came here for an explanation, that's one thing. If you came here for proof, I'm sorry I have none to offer. The purpose of this meeting was to establish exactly that: we _need _your support in order to expose the truth. The details behind that we can discuss presently. But before we get into a plan of action, I just need to re–establish trust between us. I know that seems paradoxical considering I can't offer you anything to stand upon but my word. This is a hopeless situation, but if you will just hear us out..."

Palmieri fixed Chris with a searching stare. There was a long, calculating silence as the acting–captain lapsed into silence, and then the director said, "Do I have your sworn oath as a S.T.A.R.S. officer that you have told the complete truth in this testimony, and have not exaggerated in any possible way?"

Chris nodded once immediately. "You do, sir."

"You would swear that none of your team has ever used narcotics at any point during this crisis or done anything to jeopardize the team, its reputation, or its mission parameters?"

"I do," Chris said. He indicated the other Raccoon S.T.A.R.S with his eyes. "I speak for the rest of my team as well."

The director looked around the room at the individual members of the Raccoon division. "And you all stand by him in these claims?"

There were nods from all around the room, Jill's being the most emphatic. Justin – not one to miss details – wondered at this. _Maybe __she was the most affected by all of this. Although it seems like Chris has lost several friends too..._

He was to learn later that she had spent several weeks in the infected Raccoon City alone after the rest of the S.T.A.R.S. had left for New York, and then Europe. By that time, a week or more after the incident at the mansion, there had been no one left – only the crazed and the diseased. She'd stayed behind to rescue survivors while waiting on news from the others. Nights had been the worst – finding a place with a door that still locked, then sleeping upright with a gun in one hand and one eye open, ready for anything...

Marco Palmieri seemed satisfied by Chris's oath. "We'll do this the American way, Mr. Redfield. Innocent until proven guilty."

The corner of Chris's mouth quirked upward, but he controlled the smile. "Thank you, sir."

"But before we delve deeper into this discussion," Palmieri said, raising a hand, "not everyone here is S.T.A.R.S."

"No, sir," Chris affirmed. "We've picked up a handful of affiliates, as you can see."

The director turned his dark eyes in Justin's direction. "You weren't involved in Raccoon, were you, Mr. Cantori?"

Justin shook his head, clearing his throat. "No, sir – I'm new to all this. Just got thrown into it tonight." At Palmieri's prompting, he went on to briefly narrate the tale of how he had come to be there, starting with the crazed terrorist in the Granford home and ending with the attack in his home mere hours previous.

When he had finished, Palmieri indicated Leon Kennedy and Chris's sister, Claire, in turn. "And these two?"

Leon spoke first. "I was assigned to the RPD a month before the crisis. My transfer was delayed, however, and October 3rd was my first day on–duty. I arrived in Raccoon on the evening of the 3rd, only to find that the city a hellhole – a living nightmare."

He pushed his bangs away from his forehead. "I literally had to force myself to believe what I was seeing – it was all shit straight out of a late–night B–movie. I killed two things in the street within minutes of my arrival – things that had once been people."

Claire picked up the narrative. "And I was on my way to Raccoon at the same time. I was headed there because my brother, Chris, hadn't returned any of my calls for almost a month, and every time I tried any other number in Raccoon, all I got were busy signals, overloaded answering machines, or just… _nothing_. So I set out to find my brother. Found out that I should have stayed back at my college."

She cracked a wry grin, but this disappeared quickly as she continued. "After that, I had nowhere to go what with everything I know about Umbrella. I've become interim S.T.A.R.S., I guess – I've been working with them ever since. In Europe, I was captured after being found on Umbrella grounds without authorization and interrogated, tortured, but I really didn't have any answers to give them, so they transferred me to a tiny island prison. They called it Rockfort. It was also the location of a decent–sized laboratory and a type of quarantine prison. There was another viral spill there – a strain of the T–Virus not as strong as the Raccoon catastrophe, but powerful enough to infect the entire population of the island. I managed to escape with the help of an uninfected inmate – Steve Burnside – and my brother, Chris."

She looked down at her hands. It seemed that time had not erased the guilt she carried. "Steve was killed by a monster – a woman named Ashford who infected _herself _with a virus. Chris killed the bitch, and we escaped together."

When she didn't say anything more, Leon stepped in again. "Since then, Chris has had Claire and me split, hiding out in various locations state–side, separate from the S.T.A.R.S., partially for our protection, but also in case some of us were found. That way, the rest could keep fighting even if others were caught. It hasn't been easy staying out of sight, but fortunately, Umbrella thinks Claire and me are still in France."

Palmieri pursed his lips. "I see. Thank you for your testimony. Seeing as you three are all disconnected from the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. yet in agreement, your stories lend credulity to their case." He folded his hands in his lap. "Well, it appears that we are now all too tightly involved in this whole affair for any one of us to back out now. This meeting – and its topics – must remain secret at all costs. Is that understood?"

There were nods and affirmative murmurs from all around, most of them firm and agreeable, although some were reluctant.

"We can't keep any of you from talking, sure," Chris said, drawing attention back to himself. "But trust me, if Umbrella finds out you know anything, you're placing your_self_ in immediate danger – not us."

Palmieri looked to Chris. "Are you absolutely certain that this building is safe to discuss operations, Redfield?"

"We've checked everything thoroughly for bugs or cameras, and Jill and Rebecca have been keeping close tabs on the neighbors." Chris pointed into the room to the left of the kitchen. "Leon has our command center set up in there – observing Umbrella activity through their mainframe. The apartment walls are thick enough for us to discuss things freely. It's a stable environment for the time being."

Palmieri nodded. "Good," he said. "Well, having heard your brief testimonies and having studied intensely the accusations leveled at you all by Umbrella, I'm sorry to say that there is little that I can do for you all for the time being. The fact of the matter is that there is simply no evidence to back your claims in court. If any of this were to be stated publicly, we would all be hanged for hearsay and dereliction of duty. In the future, I will get a court appeal in order to fight for your division's reinstitution, but as for the Umbrella matter, it doesn't seem there is much we can do but wait."

Chris exchanged a significant look with Barry, then cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair. "Sir, if I may? Mr. Burton and I have already drawn up some plans."

The director's eyebrows went up. "You've assumed command in light of Captain Wesker's… departure?"

Chris nodded. "Yes, sir. As you well know, I was next in the chain of command. Immediately after we reorganized, I unofficially took on the role of captain merely in order to get us through this nightmare. If I may present our plans, sir?"

Palmieri nodded bemusedly, almost proudly. "Good initiative… _captain_. Please proceed."

"Thank you, sir." Chris jumped to his feet and exited the room in three strides.

Without missing a beat, John Andrews called out loudly, "That's your plan? Run away?"

There was a smattering of laughter from the S.T.A.R.S. gathered in the room, and then Chris was back, carrying a thick roll of butcher's paper, several large maps, and a notebook under one arm, in addition to a mysterious black book under the other.

"Everyone gather close," he ordered, dropping all the objects he carried onto the coffee table. "Barry, help me drag this over."

Together, they pushed the solid oak table across the room, bringing it directly in front of Palmieri's wheelchair. The S.T.A.R.S. and Justin gathered around the table to see.

Chris spoke to them over his shoulder as he sank into a kneeling position in front of the table. "During the past week, I took the liberty of taking my team into the swamplands outside Sheena City to scout out an Umbrella facility located on those grounds."

"What a long night _that_ was," Jeff reminisced in an undertone, scratching at a spot on his arm. "I'm still suffering from the goddamn mosquito bites."

Chris unfolded the roll of paper to reveal a hand–drawn map, meticulously depicting several square kilometers of marsh and swampland. He looked up at the men and women crowded around.

"This is the Umbrella–owned swampland just outside of Sheena City. At the dead center of the swamps – the only stable ground for a foundation of that density – is the facility, and it is a _testing_ facility. This is significant in that we can find samples of their viruses here. Umbrella divides its plants and laboratories according to function; this one here in the swamp does not see the creation of viruses, only the testing.

"My overall plan – excluding details for the moment being – is to send a team in to retrieve a sample of the T-Virus, and any additional specimens if possible. If we obtain one of these samples – fluid or airborne – we could use it as a testimony against Umbrella. Rebecca could safely administer the virus to rats or something, just to show the court its potency and effects."

Palmieri nodded, apparently pleased. "Good. Disprove?"

Chris pursed his lips thinking; he clearly hated to have to shoot down his own plan. "Well, I wouldn't authorize entry into the lab during the scouting run, so I don't know what type of opposition we will face once inside. Also, the approach to the facility will not be easy while carrying heavy equipment. Other than that, I don't see a problem with going in – assuming we retain secrecy. What do you think, sir?"

Palmieri was busy studying the map Chris and Barry had drawn. "I think it's the best we've got. Give me your plan of action."

"There are three possible entrances into the facility." As Chris spoke, he pulled over the maps he had brought – all blueprints of the Umbrella facility and some computer printouts. "One is the employee entrance above ground, one is an elevator disguised a tree – that takes us directly to the quarantine room just outside the main operations room – and, finally, the shipping entrance at the rear of the facility."

As he spoke, Chris indicated each access point on the map. The disguised elevator was hidden approximately twenty meters from the south wall of the facility.

Captain Blake raised a finger. "I assume everything is locked down after hours, Chris. How do we get in?"

Chris's eyes sparkled mysteriously, and he reached out to pat the little black book that he had brought out with the map. "I'll get to that."

Oblivious to the curious looks most of the room's occupants were trading, he continued his narrative. "We were out at the facility for about four hours when we last went. Through several observations, we can conclude that avoiding security cameras will not be difficult. The ones outside of the building take 90° turns on regular intervals of 4.2 seconds. If we use the swamp foliage to our advantage and are mindful of the four–second rotations, we should be able to get into the facility undetected. Also, we are of the knowledge that, late at night, there should be a minimum of personnel on duty within the complex and virtually no one on the grounds. There are usually only a few vehicles parked in the lot – here –" he pointed to a spot on the map depicting approximately one hundred square feet "– after hours, which suggests that these few remaining personnel are security guards, possibly live–in researchers and the like."

He looked back at Palmieri. "The only problem we would have – and I mentioned it – is with transportation. We'll need some sort of vehicle to transport necessary equipment and we don't have any."

Blake spoke up again. "I can get us some vans."

"I'd be concerned about the risk factor, Captain." Palmieri said. "No one can know about this operation."

"Right." Chris readjusted his seating position to a more comfortable one. "You might need to commandeer the vans, Garrett – I'm sure your activity will be monitored, and it might be better for your branch to suspect thievery or even a mole within than for them to learn of this operation. I know that's asking a lot, but it's something to consider."

Blake said nothing, but Justin could tell he had not been offended by the suggestion.

Chris brought all eyes back to the map on the coffee table. "Now, once we have the vans in our possession – and have them geared and loaded up – we can take them directly into the swamp, to approximately this point."

He used a pencil to draw a light circle around a small section on the map a hundred meters from the facility. "There are cameras hidden in stumps and underbrush every few meters for security beyond this point. If they pick _us_ up, we should be okay – we'll be dressed all in black and our movements should be dismissed as those of the nocturnal animals – but if they see the vans, we'll be sunk."

David Trapp crossed his arms over his chest, thinking. "What do you think about just eliminating the cameras? A good flak grenade, perhaps?"

Chris ran fingers through his short hair. "We could attempt it if we _had_ grenades, but the fact that their cameras are malfunctioning might alert them to the fact that something is not right. The goal is to get in and out without them any wiser, although they'll notice pretty quickly that some virus samples are missing. But by then we'll be long gone. I think we can get in pretty easily – security outside is not as tight as is usual for most Umbrella labs. This place seems to be relatively low–key in terms of importance to the company."

Blake raised a hand and spoke for a third time. "How will we divide our teams, Chris?"

Chris did a quick head count. "Well, there's nineteen of us – including you, sir," he said, addressing Palmieri. "That's kind of a large group to take directly into the facility. Besides, Marco can't really be a field agent for us at this time. I think at least two people should stay behind with Marco and the vans. The remaining sixteen are split into three teams – one will enter via the elevator, and the other team will subdivide. These two groups will proceed into the facility through the employee and shipping entrances."

"Which brings us back to Captain Blake's question." The grey–eyed, man who had arrived with David, John, and Marco had finally spoken up. All eyes turned at his annoyed tone. "How do we actually get _in_? Getting _to_ the facility is one thing, but getting _in_ is another."

Marco Palmieri broke in before Chris could reply. "I'm sorry – I forgot to introduce Tom. This is Tom Kurtz, the S.T.A.R.S. AD. He has been looking into the Raccoon event firsthand for several months now."

There were almost imperceptible nods from the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. by way of greeting, and the mutual dislike of the man was almost obvious. Tom Kurtz had been the one to sign the order for the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. to disband and had refused to believe their stories about zombies when they had visited his office in New York.

Tom reiterated his question without waiting to be properly greeted. "How do we get in, Captain Redfield?"

Chris reached out and nudged the black book in the direction of David Trapp. "If you wouldn't mind explaining, David?" he asked.

"Certainly," David said. He scooped up the book and held it for the rest to see. "This marvelous book contains the access codes to every Umbrella facility world–wide. It seems too good to be true, I know. However, what remained of my Exeter team and Ms. Chambers went into an Umbrella facility in Utah to claim this prize – one of only four in the world – and here we have it. It contains access codes, security codes, combination locks. We can get into anything of Umbrella's that we want to – even the janitors' lockers."

Chris licked his lips. "The bad thing is that once Umbrella realizes security's been breached, they'll automatically change the codes. Once we put in the code, we will have to get in and out of that facility within the time space of an hour. Any longer, and I'm sure Umbrella will suspect foul play and send in teams to subdue us. That's why we've saved it for such a special occasion."

Trapp picked up the narration again, coming to stand beside Chris. "This book was in the former possession of a Jay Reston, once a minor member on Umbrella's top board. He was slaughtered by a creature of Umbrella's invention – something they called 'Fossil'. Rebecca managed to grab the codebook off of him and we got out in time."

"They haven't taken notice of the theft?" Palmieri asked, his tone intrigued. "Especially since there are only four of these in existence?"

David shrugged. "As far as we can tell, no. The Utah facility was relatively small – one of their more meager productions. Granted, we were opposed there by soldiers, but the ones we weren't forced to take out abandoned the sight as quickly as we did. I think ordinary Umbrella grunts don't know about these things – they just assume the codes are changed on regular intervals. As far as we can tell – by computer connections – the codes in this book are still valid."

Justin held up an index finger. "I have a question. How did you learn of the book's location in the first place?"

"Divine intervention," John Andrews muttered.

"We were approached by an interesting character," David said, ignoring John. "A man who simply called himself Trent – no surname, nothing else. Just Trent. We had no idea who he was when we met him – we were trying to disappear after the Caliban Cove incident, get on a plane, and rejoin the Raccoon boys and girls in Europe. Trent hijacked our plane, took us to Utah instead. He told us we could find valuable information to be used against Umbrella there, and managed to convince us to check it out."

"Who did you say this man was?" Palmieri asked, leaning forward in his wheelchair. "S.T.A.R.S.? Government?"

"He told me he was simply a friend to the S.T.A.R.S.," Jill Valentine intoned before Trapp could continue. "I met him personally before the Spencer Estate affair. He told me that there were a lot of important people watching Raccoon – _and_ the S.T.A.R.S., for that matter. He gave me some names of Umbrella employees to watch out for. He also told me to watch my back because not everyone could be trusted. Sure enough, Captain Albert Wesker turned out to be the one sleeping with Umbrella. He was also right about Brian Irons, and some other higher–ups in the Umbrella chain of command –"

"Wait a minute," Tom Kurtz said, breaking in again. "Can we find this Trent again? If he can get us all this information on Umbrella, he'd be a valuable asset in verifying your story."

There was a ringing note of disbelief in his voice, and Justin didn't like it. It seemed, despite his cooperation, that the AD did not want to believe what he was hearing.

Chris and David exchanged glances.

"We can't find him," the former said slowly, thinking. "He's covered his tracks extremely well – he's always contacted us in person, except for once – that was by phone to tell us to get out of our safehouse in France. The next day, Umbrella raided the whole place. We would have been slaughtered, had not Trent intervened. But anyway, the call was made from a payphone – I had Leon trace it – so we are still none the wiser about him. And now he won't contact us anymore."

"So he's proven invaluable, because he's somehow connected to Umbrella's inner circle." Palmieri steepled his fingertips, gazing at the oak surface of the coffee table. "After we complete this operation, I want part of your prerogatives to include locating this Trent, Captain Redfield. I want to try and find files on him, trace any items he's given you all, and the like. We need to find him – it's vital, especially if he is truly a 'friend' of the S.T.A.R.S."

There were murmurs of acknowledgment from the members of the group. The introduction of the enigmatic stranger had them all thinking, all _hoping_.

_Maybe there's a way out after all, _Justin thought to himself.

"Alright," Chris said, bringing the conversation back to the mission. "Where were we? Oh, yeah. The codebook. So, once we use the code, security will eventually alert Umbrella's heads to the fact that there's been a breach, so – as stated – we'll only have about an hour to get what we need and then get out. Let me also stress my concerns for our safety within the facility. I don't know what we'll be facing in there. It could be that we'll get in, get the samples, and get out that easily. I don't know."

Chris's face was deathly serious as he made eye contact with the other S.T.A.R.S. – so serious in fact, that Justin shuddered as the Captain's eyes finally met with his.

"We've gone up against things more foul in the past year than Satan himself, and if anyone wants to back out, I won't blame them." He was looking around at them again. "But let me reiterate this point: Umbrella is the most immoral, demented conspiracy of cowards the world has ever seen, and they need to be brought into the light – if only to save the rest of the world from their foul play."

There was complete silence in the room for the space of several seconds.

John Andrews clapped his hands together once. "_Ahh_, what's the good of a mission without a little risk?" he demanded jovially. "I like it. When do we go?"

Chris referred the question to Blake. "How soon can you get us those vans, Garrett?"

The Philadelphia captain chewed his lip. "I would say a couple of days, but that's pushing it. I should be able to borrow them and bring them back here from Philly within a week."

"That's still pretty soon," David Peréz said, and while his words were optimistic, his tone revealed concern.

Justin could see the fear in the other man's eyes, although he was obviously not the type to let weakness stop him.

"The sooner the better." Palmieri's voice exuded confidence, and his eyes flashed with energy. "How well–stocked are you with equipment, Captain Redfield?"

"While Barry and I were in Europe, David and John spoke with a weapons dealer," Chris replied. "Using what funds we had, we put together a fairly decent arsenal. We also have up–to–date computers – that's how we got those maps of the Umbrella facility – and plenty of ammunition to go around. Barry keeps everything in working order, so that's one less concern."

"Just the same, I'd like to play it safe." Garrett Blake crossed his arms over his chest. "I'll see if I can't take along any additional weaponry for this. If I may, Marco, there are two people I'd like to bring into this operation – people we can trust. Both are on my team."

There were reservations in his gaze, but Palmieri nodded despite them. "I will trust your judgment, Captain Blake. You know your people better than I do."

"I have some business to take care of as well," Justin said, speaking to the group as a whole. "If someone could lend me a car – or just drop me off – I need to get back to Sheena in the morning."

"That's playing it close, Justin," Chris warned, his eyes full of concern. "Umbrella will be expecting you to turn up."

Justin nodded slowly but determinedly, deliberately avoiding Jeff's gaze. "I know. I'll be careful."

Blake clapped a hand on Justin's shoulder, turning his head around. "Sheena isn't exactly on the way to Philly, but I'll be glad to drop you off on my way to the airport. You can hitch a taxi back right?"

"Just be sure to not take it directly _here_," Jill advised from her seat beside Rebecca.

Justin nodded at her. "Sure."

"We're calling this operation 'Freebird'," Chris told them all, redirecting the group's attention. "We're technically not S.T.A.R.S. anymore, and our objective is to get the evidence we need to clear our names, so... Fuck, we just like the song."

Barry spoke over the laughter. "And speaking of names, no one is to use anyone else's name in the facility. We're going to all be wearing facemasks and have designated colors as our titles until we get out – secrecy is of the essence."

"Well that's settled then. Good work, Captain Redfield." Palmieri spoke to the group as a whole. "Get your asses in gear, gentlemen. I expect you all – save Captain Blake and fellows – to be here by 2000 hours tomorrow evening for further discussion. We've got reputations to salvage."


	10. The Road to Ruin

**Chapter 9: The Road to Ruin

* * *

**Route 93: South  
Nevada  
17 July, 1999  
0900 hrs (9:00am)

* * *

"So I heard tell that Umbrella has a hand up your ass," Justin said, his tone conversational, but his interest somewhat beyond.

Captain Garrett Blake barked a short laugh, like the sound of a powerful, yet short–lived firecracker. "You might say that," he admitted, keeping his eyes trained on the road.

He was driving the rental, and Justin was in the passenger seat. They were bound for Sheena: Justin had his errands to run, and Garrett was heading east to PA – the state where this whole thing had started. Garrett's two fellow S.T.A.R.S. were travelling separately – to avoid any unnecessary attention at the airport. As it was, the meeting the night previous had been risky enough.

No one outside the Raccoon group had stayed overnight in the safehouse besides Justin. Leon and Claire, despite their close affiliation with the team, had left together, then parted company somewhere in nearby Wells. The Philly, New York, and Maine S.T.A.R.S. had all vacated the premises well before the clock had struck two in the morning, and they had not told the others were they were headed.

Despite his exhaustion, Justin had spent the majority of the night staring at the dark ceiling of the apartment sitting room. Frightening possibilities had plagued his mind, disturbing images had tormented him. The sofa had been decently comfortable, but there hadn't been any blankets to keep him warm.

And yet he barely noticed the chill. Too much had happened in just a day, too much for him to really understand it all, too much for him to sleep. He caught himself worrying about how angry Hernandez was going to be in the morning, how Sigfried was never going to allow him back on the force for it, and that Jonah would never agree to cover Justin's shift for him again…

His heart clenched: Jonah was dead. He had forgotten.

_You can't go back,_ he thought morosely._ That life is over._

And as he lay there, the mildew–spotted ceiling and the room around him suddenly grew blurry. His chest tightened around his already painful heart, and he literally bit down on his fist to stifle the overwhelming grief and the absolute _terror_ drowning his faith.

His life was upside down, wrong, perverted. He had lost a good friend, his home, status, his reputation. _Alyx_. Everything. His sense of stability and self were just gone: technically, he didn't even exist anymore.

But he was a cop, or had been. He knew what it meant to be strong: he knew that now he had to be just that – perhaps now more than ever before. There was simply no going back: there was only the future, a future with the S.T.A.R.S. and the ongoing, perhaps never–ending war.

Blinking away the tears, Justin scowled at the ceiling, hating his weakness.

_I _am_ home, _he thought angrily, miserably. _I'm alive, and I'm _home_. I have purpose. God, you've given me a purpose, you've been more gracious than I deserve. Keep me now._

Prayer had always sustained him, even in intense doubt. Now, he lay awake, listening to Jeff snoring in the next room, hoping that God had heard.

"Yeah, we're Umbrella's puppets," Garrett said, bringing Justin suddenly back to the present. "It's not as bad as you would think, though – I mean, it's not a concentration camp or anything. Of course things could certainly get ugly if anyone found out about last night."

_What the hell were we talking about?_

Justin cleared his throat, stalling so he could remember. "So… so how does everything… _work_?" he asked finally, watching the cars flashing by on either side of them.

"What, operating under Umbrella command?" Garrett spared him a glance, then shrugged. "To tell you the truth, it's not much different than it was before. Our floor Director is an Umbrella crony if there ever was one: advocates everything Umbrella – from medicine to coffee mugs. Generally our procedures carry out the same, although we don't have to phone into NY for permission for anything anymore except for the most serious cases – orders now come from a central Director within Umbrella itself. Of course, the real difference is in the very foundation of the organization."

His tone was still conversational, but there was a tinge of bitterness to the words all of a sudden. "The title 'S.T.A.R.S.' really means nothing anymore – we're just another part of Umbrella. I suppose keeping the name works both ways – we don't have to feel like sellouts, and Umbrella doesn't have to consider the organization another branch to maintain.

"Since the takeover, all the S.T.A.R.S.' funding started coming straight from Umbrella's pockets. The S.T.A.R.S. organization was originally privately funded, but when Palmieri organized us into an MP branch of the NSDA something like a decade ago, we started getting paid by the government. Technically we still are, as a matter of fact, but now it's indirectly. Our paychecks are all issued by Umbrella. Our healthcare is all Umbrella, our pensions are all under Umbrella, our employees and officers all go through Umbrella screening…"

He shook his head slowly, his eyes not really focused on the road ahead of them. "It was gradual – real gradual. Slow enough to keep everyone happy, but rapid enough to let Umbrella relax, I suppose. You'd be hard–pressed to find a branch of the S.T.A.R.S. that _isn't_ infiltrated now. In fact, I think the Raccoon boys and girls remain the only completely pure exception at the moment."

Justin studied the dashboard, drumming his hands rhythmically on his thighs. "Will it be difficult now that you're in on Freebird?"

Garrett grimaced. "No harder than usual, considering I've had to keep knowledge of the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. to myself all this time. It's just a matter of maintaining my composure, staying a good Captain, and keeping the cover stories flowing. Besides, this first operation will be over shortly, and from there on out I won't be needed unless something really big comes up."

Justin studied the dirty fender of the pickup Garrett was tailgating. "You know, I kind of got the impression that Captain Redfield would prefer to work alone on operations," he said. "I mean, obviously he's thrilled to have allies, but if you asked me, I'd say he would much rather just take his people into the lab than organizing three different strike teams."

"Yeah, I've always kind of been the same myself," Garrett admitted. "It's complicated to coordinate teams and keep orders straight, not to mention running the risk of friendly fire."

"And I'm sure a lot of it has to do with the suspension and all the rumors," Justin mused aloud. "I mean, it's clear that not everyone who was there last night believed the story completely. And it's pretty risky to trust people you're unsure of to watch your back."

"Spoken like a cop," Blake said, shooting him a grin. "Judging from the story you told last night, I'd suspect you feel the same way Chris does."

Justin nodded slowly. "Well, yeah, although it _is_ good to know there are other people you can fall back on – even temporarily. I guess it's just a matter of looking both ways before crossing the street – and then hoping like hell nothing comes at you from behind."

Blake played his tongue around the inside of his cheek. "If you're thinking of Tom Kurtz – the AD? Uh, he's just one of those people you've got to get used to. You've got to keep in mind the position he's in: not wanting to get _too_ involved for fear of implication – especially if it turns out that all of this was a scam. And yet, at the same time, he knows his duty and feels a sincere obligation to get to the bottom of things. Plus, he feels responsible for the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., and he wants to do all he can for them without appearing weak and sniveling."

"_And_ he's really got no choice, considering that Palmieri's involved _him_self already." Justin scratched at his unshaven jaw. "It's not that I don't trust him, I guess… Well, maybe it is. I mean… Well, think about it: if he had wanted to really get involved, then why didn't he investigate into the Raccoon situation _before_ signing the suspension papers? Maybe that's not a fair question. I dunno – I guess I'm just being overly suspicious. Can't really help it after all that's gone down the last couple of days."

Indeed, it felt like he would never fully trust anyone again – not Jeff, not the S.T.A.R.S., not SPD, not the government. But what did it really matter to make distinctions, after all? It was all Umbrella now.

But Jeff… Jeff was his brother. Jeff had always been a hero.

_He still is,_ Justin thought, distracted again. _He always will be. I've got to teach myself to believe in him again._

Blake took a moment before responding, as though he knew what was going through Justin's mind. "Justin, if there's one thing I've learned through this thing, it's to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Cliché, I know, but hear me out. I've never been religious or anything, but I've always put a lot of stock in the general morality of man. Call it innocence, call it goodness – call it whatever you'd like. The fact of the matter is that I'm always going to be looking over my shoulder – probably for the rest of my life – but I'm not going to let the bad people in life corrupt the good. And I've got to have friends to back me up, to keep me sane. Do you see what I'm saying?"

Justin nodded. "Yeah. You can't live life believing that you are the only person you can trust."

"Exactly," Blake said, finally passing the pickup. "Living in fear is no way to live. That's not to say that fear isn't a good thing sometimes, but how can you fight if you're too afraid to?"

Justin chuckled, something he had not done in almost four days. "Thanks, Dr. Phil. I'm gonna get excited about my life now."

"Oh, shut up," Blake said. And then he laughed.

* * *

Blake dropped Justin off at the corner of the street where he had spent the past five years of his life.

The day was decidedly overcast and humid, yet the wind was hot and driving from the west, heralding an approaching storm. The trees lining Maine Street swayed and groaned in the gusts as Justin walked slowly down the sidewalk, his eyes fixed up ahead, on the place he could no longer call home.

There was caution tape everywhere, blocking off the front lawn and porch. Side A of the duplex appeared as derelict as B, and there was no car in the drive.

Momentarily, Justin wondered whether those neighbors had been home during the attack. Had they been the ones to hear the gunshots and call in the police?

_Some_one had heard, although no one had come running but Umbrella.

There was no activity in sight for the length of the block. In fact, the entire street seemed dead, with no sign of neighbors or children, no cars passing, nothing.

It was understandable: parents would be too afraid to let their children play outside for days, weeks. After all, what type of criminal attacks and kills a police officer in his own home? And how many people had been involved – there had been so many bodies, and what had been their agenda?

Who was safe?

Justin was almost shocked that he didn't see any "for sale" signs on any surrounding lawns. Not that anyone would be looking to buy.

He stopped across the street from the empty apartment, wrestling with a sense of foreboding that threatened to change his resolve. The rational part of him wanted to just go – to leave and never come back. But the reckless, foolishly heroic side of him told him to go the opposite way – to face his fears and get it over with.

The wind pushed his hair away from his forehead, like a blast from a furnace. Justin glanced up at the overcast sky, and made up his mind.

Licking his lips, he quickly looked up and down the street for anyone – or anything – suspicious before jogging across the street and ducking beneath the first line of tape.

Wary of being spotted, he quickly let himself into the enclosed porch (which was not locked), staying low, and then crawled almost cat–like into his own kitchen.

The stench of death was no longer present, although the memory was still fresh in Justin's mind – as fresh as the crimson stains of wasted life on the linoleum floor. Despite the fact that the police had removed all the bodies, Justin could still visualize exactly where each had lain – as though he'd taken photographs.

For a long time, he stood still, looking around at the scene of carnage, momentarily forgetting why he had even come back. There was nothing left for him to really do – he didn't exactly have to fill out the landlord's bill now, considering that he was technically "dead". He had no phone calls to make, no mail to check, no unfinished business to tend to.

He blew out a deep sigh. _You came to get your things, nothing else._ A shiver crawled up his spine as he looked around the kitchen where he had killed four men and watched a friend die.

_Hurry up,_ he told himself. _Hurry up and get out._

Indeed, his gut was warning him that it wasn't safe and that he was wasting time. Besides, he still had to go downtown before he caught a taxi back to Couver.

Being careful not to disturb anything in plain sight, Justin headed directly for the bedroom. He had never been one to keep important or sentimental items hanging around, but there were some things in his closet, and he needed to grab some clothes. As it was, he was still wearing Leon's t-shirt and Chucks.

The small house was like a tomb, echoing with his footfalls.

There was blood on the hallway walls, as well as the beige carpet in the bedroom. Broken glass, spent cases, and other debris littered the floors, crunching underfoot, impossibly loud.

Once in his room, Justin crossed immediately to the closet. It was nearly empty, but that wasn't unusual: he had never kept much of anything in there, save duffel bags, his two suits for special occasions, and a suitcase. On the top shelf was a big box of old photographs and other memorabilia from his childhood, but there was no time to go through it now.

He grabbed the larger of the two duffel bags and threw it onto the bed, heading next to the bureau.

Jeans, t-shirts, socks, boxers. He stuffed the bag with as much as he thought he would need, forgetting – perhaps willingly – that he would never be coming back again.

There were several 9mm clips left in the top drawer. He stuffed them into his pockets, checked to reassure himself that the Beretta was still in the back of his jeans, and then dropped to his knees beside the bed.

From beneath, he dragged out the heavy, fire-proof box and fumbled with the combination lock. It popped open, and he wasted no time in pulling out the papers inside – birth certificate, expired vehicle registrations, social security information, bank statements, diplomas – but they weren't important now.

And there – beneath all the now-useless documents – was what he was looking for: about two thousand dollars in cash, money he had saved in case of emergency.

Well, this qualified as an emergency in his book.

He hastily folded the bills and stuffed them into the duffel bag, beneath the clothes, out of sight. Standing, he put his hands on his hips, looking around slowly.

That was it. There really wasn't anything else he needed.

So that meant there was only one thing left to do.

Gritting his teeth, he walked back down the hall, back into the kitchen. The counter left of the sink, three drawers down, on top of the silverware: there _should_ be some left…

He rummaged briefly through the cluttered drawer, and then straightened with a grim smile on his face.

_Not leaving anything for Umbrella._

He went back to the bedroom, and without a second thought, struck one of the matches he had found and dropped it into the fireproof box.

His study Bible was on the nightstand, dusty with plaster. Justin grabbed it and his wristwatch, strapping the latter around his wrist as the smell of burning paper began to fill the room. He placed the Bible reverently atop the mass of clothing in the duffel bag, and then zipped it closed.

_Time to go._

The smoke detector was going to go off momentarily, and he didn't want to be around when the authorities turned up and found the message he had left for them.

_Nothing for Umbrella but a warning: I'm alive and well._

Grimly satisfied, he shouldered his possessions, and headed for the door. But something stopped him again, a nagging, guilty sensation that turned him around.

Smoke was already forming a thin curtain over the room. But he could still see the corner of the box on the top shelf of the closet through the open door, that treasure chest of things he had saved through the years.

"Dammitt," he said aloud as he quickly crossed back to the closet. "There's no time."

He grasped the cardboard box and heaved it down to the floor, tearing open the flaps and staring down at the mess of photographs sitting on top. Just looking seemed to bleed the world around him of life, blew away the heat and the smoke, drawing him to another land, a once–upon–a–time.

From within the box, his mother and father gazed up at him; his siblings laughed and waved. His younger brother, over in Germany, stationed there for three years of five and looking to be promoted to Sergeant soon. His little sister, an accomplished author and mother of three, somewhere in Kentucky with her husband and children. His mother and father in California even now, living some of the dreams they had shared throughout their marriage.

And as he dug through the mountain of memories, searching for particular photos he wanted, Justin felt the cold sensation grip him. There was a very good chance, a very real possibility, that he would never see any of them again.

And what would they think when he was just… _gone_?

There would be no funeral for them to attend, to plan. There would be no knowledge of how he had died. There would just be nothing, like he had dropped off the edge of the earth, leaving them behind with nothing but sadness and regret.

Maybe Umbrella had already contacted them all, with the false news and their "sympathies".

_There's nothing I can do about that now,_ Justin thought furiously, shoving the fistful of pictures he had selected into the duffel bag. _If I contact them, I could put them in jeopardy – Umbrella's sure to keep tabs on them in case I try._

He slowly began feeding the rest of the box into the blaze he had started, blinking in the smoke. He felt very real pain, watching as everything he had ever known disappeared into the flames. It was poetically beautiful and terrible: a metaphor of what was for real.

_Nothing for Umbrella,_ he thought again and again, with every photo, childhood drawing, meaningful birthday card, and trinket he dropped into the consuming fire.

It was with a heavy heart, with a heavy bag on his back, that he left the bedroom for the last time, closing the door on the smoke, coughing a little as he made his way back to the kitchen.

It was time to go.

But as he crunched his way towards the front door, he heard something else – a small sound, like a whisper or a small movement.

He froze, his heart pounding, listening for the sound to repeat itself. If someone was here –

Who were they? What had they seen?

Justin pulled out the Beretta deftly, letting the duffel slide to the floor. He cautiously retraced his steps, heading this time into the sitting room, following the noise –

But the room was empty. There was no one, nothing.

He inhaled deeply, calmingly, lowering the handgun. Had he just been hearing things?

_You're paranoid enough at the moment._

Straightening his stance, he swept his gaze over the crappy antenna TV, his old chair, the table where he and Jonah had looked over the folder only last night.

And there was the noise again, coming from the closet by the window.

Alyx' closet.

Justin's heart leapt, pounding, and he crossed the room in three steps.

Alyx had always slept in the bed with him, but when it was storming and she was frightened or if he went away, the closet had ever been her sanctuary.

He came to stand in the doorway, and that rising feeling in his chest turned into a dreadful type of horror as he beheld the blood–soaked blankets and toys.

And she was there, whimpering, shaking, bleeding.

She had survived the night.

"Alyx," Justin whispered. He dropped to his knees, crawled into the closet and touched her sticky head.

She opened her eyes, except one of them was gone – torn out, messily: a gunshot wound. She struggled to raise her head, to see who it was with her one remaining eye, but couldn't. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth, scarlet with her own blood.

Justin cradled her head in his hands, gently lifting it up so she could see him.

The dog whimpered, but then her tail thumped the floor, and then again. She had recognized him – his voice, his touch – even if she could not see him.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Justin buried his face in the dog's bloody shoulder, hugging her tightly and crying like a child. She was his hero, his protector, and she had always been there for him. Her rough tongue was on his neck, his cheek, comforting.

_There's no time, there's no time,_ he thought at himself, but refused to heed the realization. He couldn't have let go if he had wanted to: it was almost like he was trying to save her, like clinging to a mother figure he had known for so long and yet not long enough.

As he stroked her head and back, he realized she was no longer moving. She was no longer breathing.

And yet he sat, rocking her poor, broken body. He did not only to calm himself, but also to soothe Alyx' soul – to ease her into the eternal sleep she so well deserved.


	11. Unforgiven

**Chapter 10: Unforgiven

* * *

**Sheena Police Station  
Sheena City, Nevada  
17 July, 1999  
1054 hrs (10:54am)

* * *

There were aggravated voices on the other side of the office door belonging to Sherry Hernandez – at least three of them. Either something big had happened, or something big had _not_ happened.

And Hernandez was pissed as a result.

_As usual,_ Justin thought, some wry humor of his past life returning to him.

It had not been easy getting into the station without any of the other officers noticing. After all, they all thought he was dead, and it would not do well to have them find out otherwise, especially when one of them – or more, who could tell – was potentially in Umbrella's pocket.

But the back door off the parking lot on the east side of the building was always left open, and Justin had used it. The smell of cleaning fluids was as strong as always in the janitor's office, where the door led into. Fortunately, Marv had not been in the office, and Justin had been able to slip into the main corridor, keeping his head down and heading directly towards his destination.

There had also been a dark corner by the precarious stack of dirty mops where he had dropped the duffel bag – for safekeeping. Lugging it around would only attract attention, and he certainly wasn't looking for any. He could come back and get it when it was time to go.

Justin glanced uneasily over his shoulder, aware that he was not alone in the hall. There was a very good reason he was here, but he had to move quickly and quietly –

Swallowing hard, Justin rapped sharply on the door, and then turned the knob to enter.

Sherry Hernandez, Vekama Sigfried, and Peter David were all crowded into the small office. Sigfried and David were both standing before Hernandez' desk – she was seated behind it – but they all about–faced when Justin entered and snapped a quick salute.

"Good morning," he said lightly, waiting for them to return his salute. His hope had been to meet with Hernandez alone, but he would take what he could get. Besides, if there was anyone else in the world he could trust outside of the S.T.A.R.S., these three were it.

There was a long, very tense silence as they all stared at him, dumbfounded. Hernandez mouthed wordlessly, and David's eyebrows had nearly met with his hairline.

"Cantori!" Sigfried exclaimed, speaking first. His tone was shocked, and perhaps a little afraid. "What… what are _you_ doing here?"

"Reporting as requested," Justin replied, lowering his arm. He kept his tone even, as though he didn't have a care in the world. "I apologize for being late – I was, as you know, detained."

Hernandez rose to a standing position, clutching the edge of her desk for support. "Justin…" she said slowly, incredulously. "You're… you're _dead_!"

The statement was almost comical, but Justin didn't find it funny.

"Justin, I saw your body," David said, taking a step forward. "I pronounced you dead myself. It's all over the news –"

Well, that didn't happen every day. Justin frowned, wondering exactly how Umbrella had hoodwinked SPD so efficiently. Perhaps they had disguised one of their own dead as him? Maybe the Alphas had taken care of that.

That or SPD was compromised, a possibility that was becoming more and more likely.

"Well, don't just stand there," Sigfried said suddenly, still in that strangled tone of voice. "Tell us what the hell happened."

Justin looked back at Hernandez, who was still watching him. "These guys came into the house and I fought my way out," he said slowly. "Got in a car and ran. I had no clue what was going on, but I couldn't just stay there."

Softly, he concluded, "Someone wanted me dead."

"Enough to make it look like you were," David said. "We got the 911 call from someone next door to your house – said she had heard shots fired. But by the time we got there, there were only bodies – ten of them. Including yours and Jonah's."

It was decidedly creepy. Justin suppressed a shiver.

"And you have no idea who they were, no idea why they came after you?" Hernandez asked. She sounded winded.

"No," Justin lied. "But I came here for a couple reasons. First of all, I needed to let you know that I was still alive. Second, I'm going to disappear for a while – because those people, whoever the hell they were, will be looking for me. _They_ know I'm still alive."

"Justin, we can protect you," Hernandez said, and there was very real fear in her voice. Nothing like this had ever happened to her or anyone on her staff before: this was a situation over which she had no control whatsoever. "We'll get to the bottom of this –"

Justin shook his head. "No, Ma'am. With all due respect, there's nothing you could do to protect me. It will be better if I just go – I don't want to involve any of you, or get any of you killed."

Silence again.

Justin looked around at them all, pitying them for their current dilemmas, wishing he could explain in more detail.

"What exactly happened last night?" he asked Hernandez. "You told me the body of the perp was stolen, but I didn't get a chance to find out any details."

They all seemed taken aback by the abrupt subject change.

"We… we don't really know anything," Hernandez said finally, sounding confused. "Apparently, someone waltzed into the morgue and stole the body without anyone noticing. Simple as that, but obviously there's more to the scenario – this person had to have had a key, or someone on the inside, but we've got _nothing_. There's nothing on the security cameras."

Justin said, "Would you mind if I took a look around?"

Hernandez shook her head jerkily, as though to clear it. "Justin, you… you just said you were going away, and on top of that you're technically still suspended –"

She gave him a look that he couldn't decipher. "You can't go snooping around without supervision."

But then, without waiting for him to explain or argue, her shoulders slumped helplessly. "I… Alright. Vekama? If you wouldn't mind escorting him around the morgue, please."

The older man looked utterly perplexed by the request, but then he nodded. "I'd be happy to," he grunted.

"Thank you, Vekama," Hernandez said. "Justin, I… Will we see you again?"

He really didn't have an answer, so he said nothing.

David spoke up, his voice low. "Do you need anything – anything at all?"

"Thanks, but no," Justin said, feeling an overwhelming rush of gratitude for them. "I'll be alright."

"Well, let's get this over with," Sigfried said, heading for the door.

David shook Justin's hand firmly, and so did Hernandez. They said nothing more, and then Justin turned, refusing to look back. He followed Sigfried out the door.

The old man turned on him abruptly as the door closed behind them – so quickly that Justin nearly jumped.

"Listen," Sigfried said, speaking swiftly, quietly. "I know you and I never exactly hit things off, Cantori, but I… _God_, I'm honestly am glad to see you alive."

Justin felt his eyebrows rise involuntarily. "Thank you, Sir –"

Sigfried held up a gnarled hand immediately. "No, I don't deserve the thanks. I've been an asshole to you. Listen: isthere _anything_ I can do for you – do you need money or a car or –"

"No, but thanks." Justin smiled wearily. "It's better if there are no connections between us for –"

He stopped abruptly, because he had almost said "for Umbrella to trace". That wouldn't have gone over well, and he didn't have the time for an explanation – especially considering Sigfried's affiliation with the corporation.

Sigfried was waiting.

"– for my attackers to trace." Justin blew out a deep breath. "I'll be fine on my own. And when things quiet down, I'll be back."

Sigfried nodded firmly and opened his mouth to say something further, but the office door behind them crashed open at that instant. Hernandez and David exited in a state of agitation, and the former quickly approached them.

"What's going on, Sherry?" Sigfried asked, concerned. "We were just heading to the morgue –"

"No time," Hernandez interrupted, flustered. "Vekama, we need to get over to the hospital – _now._ I just got a call from Doctor Fergisun. Apparently, Bill _killed_ a nurse. They wouldn't tell me anything specific, just that he's gone crazy or something, and they want us to try to reason with him –"

Justin felt his heart in his throat. _The virus –_

"Let's go," Justin said, grabbing Hernandez by the elbow and steering her down the hall. "Explain on the way – there's no time to lose."

"We just got the call now," Hernandez said as they hurried for the exit. She did not protest his presence – maybe she had forgotten he was no longer on the squad in light of all the strange occurrences. "Apparently it just happened. None of the other nurses can get near him, the doctor said – he's acting crazy or something –"

They literally ran down the hall and out into the dark afternoon. Hernandez and David got into David's squad car, leaving Vekama and Justin to jump into Sigfried's.

The ride to the hospital was the longest ten minutes Justin had ever endured. Neither officer spoke, leaving only the static from the police radio and jumbled voices from various dispatches to break the tense silence.

They pulled into the hospital lot, and Justin was out and running for the front doors before Sigfried had even brought the squad car to a complete stop.

He pelted through the double glass doors with Hernandez, David, and Sigfried behind him, hurrying to keep up.

People in the halls – nurses, men and women in wheelchairs, visitors – all dived to get out of his way. A nurse pushing a trolley loaded with soiled linen threw herself up against the wall to avoid Justin as he tore past and kept going.

"Move, move, _move_!" he shouted at the people gathered in the hallways, arms and legs pumping as he ran. "_Move_, I'm a _cop_!"

The receptionist desk was dead ahead, and the woman behind it was standing up holding up her hands to stop him. "_Excuse_ me sir, but you're going to have to calm down!"

Justin skidded to a halt in front of her. "I'm a cop – I'm here to see about Bill Ferdinand and whatever situation we've got here –"

Her eyebrow went up, her eyes regarding his casual attire. "A _cop_, sir? May I see your badge, please?"

"We're with him," Hernandez said as they hurried past towards the elevator. She flashed her badge at the woman, then kept going.

The receptionist nodded at Justin, who had taken off after his contemporaries without waiting to see her do so.

The elevator ride up to the 3rd floor was only a twenty-second ride – Justin counted, his heart pounding – and the second the doors split open, the four cops were instantly pouring out and thundering down the hall.

They immediately knew which room Ferdinand was in, due to the crowd of nurses and doctors gathered around the door. Snatches of their conversations reached Justin's ears as they neared room 112, and he didn't like what he was hearing.

"…don't understand what _happened_ to him…"

"…tazers wouldn't do any good – seems like sedatives won't affect him either…"

"– holy _shit_, man – he's… he's _eating_ her –"

Hernandez shouldered her way through the group of nurses and doctors, her voice commanding. "Step aside please, SPD. Step aside, please."

The bodies pressed in around them parted for a moment, giving Justin a clear look through the room 112 window.

Ferdinand – or what had _been_ Bill Ferdinand – was straddling a body dressed in a nurse's uniform, and Justin judged by the breasts that the nurse had been a female, but that was the only distinguishing feature that remained of her.

The woman didn't seem to have a face – at least, not anymore. Ferdinand had torn all the skin and muscle away, leaving bare, bloodstained bone to gleam in the light of the fluorescents. Ragged flaps of skin still clung to the cheekbones and chin, but the left side of her face was a clotted mass of blood, hair, and what remained of her ear.

Ferdinand had eaten the rest, including the left eye, leaving the socket empty save for a pool of blood and a few ragged veins.

_Oh, God –_

Justin's stomach turned inside–out, but he had not eaten anything since lunch the day before. Numbly, he stared as Bill swayed aimlessly back and forth, his dangling arms like useless rubber appendages, his head cocked to one side with eyes staring blankly –

Hernandez saying, "Step aside, step aside", and then Sigfried was pushing him from behind, hurrying him along –

Snapping out of his daze, Justin was suddenly all action. He dragged out the Beretta, slapping the safety to release it, and stepped up to the door in front of the others.

"In the head," he told the other three cops, adrenaline rendering his words thick and breathless. "That's how I killed the perp. Shoot him in the head."

"Wait – can't he be saved –?" one of the doctors questioned.

Justin didn't answer. Instead, he slapped the handle downward, throwing the door open with his shoulder, and came in firing.

The first bullet sloughed skin, hair, and blood from the side of Ferdinand's partially raised head, spraying the bed sheets with blood and snapping the cop's head around. Justin's second shot took him through the temples, sending Bill sprawling off of the dead nurse's body.

Hernandez entered the room after him, her weapon poised. She didn't fire, and there were tears in her eyes. She had known Bill Ferdinand for longer than the rest – years.

Bill was still struggling, his left arm clawing at the bed as he attempted to right himself. A guttural growl emitted from his throat, a gurgle of fluid that was most likely phlegm and blood that did not belong to him.

Justin used his foot to push the infected cop back down, then planted his heel on the carrier's bandaged neck to hold him – _it, _he told himself – down.

The third bullet he sent into Bill Ferdinand's brain was final.

The cop spasmed and died, still gurgling deep in his throat.

There was perfect silence and ringing in their ears.

"What the hell was wrong with him?" David wanted to know, his cool eyes passing back and forth between the mess that had been a nurse and the murderer – Bill Ferdinand. His wavering tone suggested barely contained revulsion. "What… What made him _do_ that?"

_Sorry, Bill,_ Justin thought at the dead cop, unable to take his eyes off the man. He felt the tears welling up, a hopeless crush of guilt in his chest.

_It's my fault you ever got infected – ever got involved. It's only right that I be the one to put you down._

But still he questioned whether there had been some hope for the man. Despite Chris Redfield making it very clear that there was no cure for the Raccoon Sickness, Justin couldn't help but feel as though he had acted foolishly – perhaps even ended a life that would have gone on for a long while more.

_No. Umbrella turned him into a monster. There was nothing else I could have done. And he wasn't a monster – he was just a victim, just like all those innocents from Raccoon._

Behind him, Hernandez and the other two cops were discussing aloud what was going on – they were just as confused as the doctors gathered around watching in mixed horror and fascination.

Justin holstered his handgun, turning to face his superiors and the throng of doctors.

"I don't know exactly what's going on," he said loudly, drawing all their attention, "but it's connected to the epidemic in Raccoon and the perp we killed in the Granford House. Some sort of plague that's been spreading."

He had almost said the words "T-Virus" in concordance with that pronouncement, but that would mean nothing to the doctors and only arouse more suspicion than he wanted.

Sigfried clearly was not happy with this bold pronouncement – as could be expected – but he said nothing besides, "We need to get this cleaned up and fast. Don't want to attract attention."

"No one _touch_ anything," Justin said, speaking to the doctors outside the room. "Don't anyone get into direct contact with him – get HazMat suits if you have to. Am I understood? Something highly infectious is at work here and we can't risk spreading it."

The doctors scrambled to accomplish the task of cleanup, some hurrying to get chemicals, others to get proper attire. A jumble of confused conversation filtered through the partially open door as commotion commenced.

"Do we need the CSI team?" David asked, directing the question at Hernandez.

Sigfried, stepping in, shook his head. "Not necessary," he said gruffly.

"Is he really… _dead_?" Hernandez asked, her eyes troubled as she gazed at her former officer.

"I think so," Justin said, turning to look at Ferdinand as well. "Head shots killed the perp, and he had this same sort of disease. Sorry to make this connection, but this is something straight out of a zombie movie."

But what bothered Justin's conscience the most was that Ferdinand still looked _normal_. His hair had an oily, greasy quality and his skin appeared to be so white it was almost translucent, but other than that there was nothing to suggest any health abnormality.

Blood from his victim coated his chin, having dribbling from his lips and smeared onto his cheeks, caked there in layers.

"So what do we really _know_?" David asked, crouching beside the body of the woman, eyeing the remnants of her skull with a cool eye. "Anything solid? Just that this is the same thing that has been spreading in the Raccoon Valley?"

"Nothing really," Justin replied. He wanted to spill everything, he wanted to give it all away and get it all out, but he couldn't risk it. There were probably more Umbrella sympathizers in the immediate vicinity, and he would be risking the S.T.A.R.S.' cover.

"The only thing I'm really worried about is contagiousness," David continued, running fingers over his jaw. "I'm interested in knowing how this thing is communicable. Can we catch it just by being in close proximity?"

Justin licked his lips and folded his arms over his chest. "I don't think so. If what I've heard about this 'Raccoon Sickness' is correct, it's only communicable through fluids – bodily waste, blood, saliva, etc. Seems to be the case – the perp transferred the virus to Ferdinand after bitinghis neck."

It was the truth: the virus, according to what Chris had said, was only spread from carrier to carrier because most innocents were bitten by those infected. In fact, one drop of infected blood could hold millions of pathogens. That was how the disease had spread so fast in the Raccoon community and not spread much farther than the Victory District: the infected didn't wander far from the isolated community when there was plenty of _meat_ to be consumed in the immediate vicinity. They multiplied rapidly that way – if they didn't completely consume one another.

Justin swallowed heavily, sweating under his collar. _Gotta be careful. Can't say anything other than my own observations._

"Well, how did this sickness get all the way out here in Sheena?" David pressed.

"Well, it certainly didn't spread all the way out here," Justin said. "There would be more cases in cities along the way. That means that the epidemic wasn't caused by something within Raccoon itself; it's something that could potentially spread out here as well."

He made the mistake of looking down into Ferdinand's vapid eyes and felt another rush of guilt. He quickly looked away, fighting back sudden tears.

"Alright…" Hernandez said slowly, seemingly in a daze. "I… I want everyone's reports on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to know what everyone saw exactly as they saw it, just so I can know that I'm not going crazy myself."

She looked up at Justin, something like horrified guilt in her eyes. "I'm sorry for ever doubting you, Justin. It's _me_ who really owes _you_ an apology. I should have taken you at your word, and I realize that any suspension was unnecessary. I apologize."

Justin waved that away. "Not necessary, Chief," he murmured. "It doesn't matter now, anyway."

"It's unbelievable," said Sigfried suddenly, his bass tone reverberating in the small room. "Impossible even. Who would have thought that something would exist that could do _this_ to people?"

"I don't know what to do," Hernandez said softly. "I'm out of ideas."

At that precise moment, a jumble of doctors and janitorial staff bubbled into the room, and the seeming head of the precession kindly asked the cops to step out of the room so that they could begin the cleanup.

As Hernandez and the others left the room, Justin pulled the head doctor aside and spoke to him quietly.

"Listen," Justin said softly, so as not to let the others overhear. "You need to take this man's body somewhere besides the morgue and you need to take it apart piece by piece. He had some kind of disease – something that came from his injury – and I want to know exactly what it did to his organs. I want to know what it _is_, and you need to make it public. But, you also need to file this information away – it could be immensely important in the near future."

If the man was confused by the strange request, he didn't show it. "Yes, sir," he said, hazel eyes betraying no emotion from behind his glasses.

The others were waiting for him in the hall, so Justin hurried outside. They paused outside the window to watch the doctors working.

"I feel like I should wash my hands now," David said matter–of–factly. Truth be told, they all felt like that, but none of them had actually touched anything in the room.

"Fuck, what's wrong with a shower?" Hernandez asked, wiping her palms nervously on her pants. It was a habit she had acquired within the past ten minutes. "I guess there's really nothing left to do but speak to Ferdinand's doctor about what happened. He'll need to know so that the body can be examined. Perhaps it was just a mental trauma or something."

"Seemed fine the other day," Justin pointed out. "Go ahead and speak with Fergisun. I'm going to ask some of these doctors exactly what happened. We need as much information as possible."

For whatever reason, Sigfried looked like he wanted to protest this action, but Hernandez and Peter had already swept past him, and Hernandez was calling over her shoulder, "Come on, Vekama – let's get this over with."

Shooting a concerned look in Justin's direction, Sigfried turned to follow the chief of SPD.

Left alone, Justin walked over to the doorway to the room in which Bill Ferdinand had died. He watched the doctors lift the dead cop's body onto a stretcher, being careful not to actually touch the man per Justin's orders.

"What exactly happened here?" Justin asked, directing the question at the male nurse who stood watching through the window.

The man was taller than Justin and balding. He shrugged bony shoulders. "Nancy was the nurse he killed. She came to Dr. Fergisun saying that her patient was complaining of massive headaches and feverish itching – it was the second time she'd made that claim since the guy came in. Fergisun sent Nancy back to give the patient a quick physical to check for an infection. Security came over the intercom saying there was an emergency in room 112, and we all hurried over to find _this_. Fergisun must have called you boys."

Justin nodded slowly. "I don't really know what to make of all this," he said, partly honest.

"Me neither," the nurse replied, sighing heavily. "I've never seen a man do anything like this – even in states of extreme insanity or agitation. I mean, people will bite and scratch to defend themselves in desperation, but… but _eating_ them…?"

He shuddered, then continued. "Dr. Betts rushed in and tried to get the cop off of Nancy, but Mr. Ferdinand turned and _snapped_ at him. Betts backed out of the room trembling, and it was already too late for us to get involved."

He looked over at Justin, and there was a haunted look in his eye – something that couldn't be chased away by his experience as a nurse. "Was there anything we could have done for him? Could we have saved her? Either of them?"

Justin pressed his lips together and shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Sorry to bother you."

The nurse shook his head.

Justin thanked the man and was just turning to go –

– when the thunder of booted feet in the hall made his heart stop, as did the sight of black–armored Umbrella–S.T.A.R.S. as they rushed down the hall and surrounded the room, automatic weaponry clicking into the ready –

Justin felt his limbs freeze, the blood and life draining from his body as the S.T.A.R.S. came thundering towards him, their weapons trained at his chest –

"Step aside, step aside," the leader said in agitation, pushing past Justin and the nurse with whom he had been speaking. The Captain entered room 112, and began speaking to the doctors who had been dealing with the mess that had been a nurse and Bill Ferdinand.

Justin's heart was pounding as he struggled to come to grips with the Umbrella–S.T.A.R.S.' sudden appearance.

_Someone called Umbrella in. They're going to get the body, secret it away. We'll lose the evidence again –_

But there was nothing he could do as a biohazard containment unit came down the hall, plastic body bags and sterilized equipment over their shoulders, a stretcher drawn between two of them.

The Umbrella–S.T.A.R.S. herded the curious doctors, and onlookers away from room 112, saying repeatedly that the situation was completely under control. The weapons they held made it hard for the Sheena doctors to argue, but they did protest loudly.

_But the body –_

It would be the second one that would be lost. There would be no tracing the virus back to Umbrella, no proof to back the preposterous claims – they would destroy it.

_And their tracks are well covered_.

Umbrella had had a hand in everything that went on in the Sheena Hospital ever since the pharmaceutical company had bought partial shares in the state–owned facility. As a result, their involvement with this incident was already self–explanatory and there was no risk that their reputation would be smeared, and not even the slightest chance that things could be blamed on them. And, if they moved quickly, they could even squash the press and keep the story from circulating to the outside.

Justin felt and heard the enamel in his teeth grinding as he clenched his jaw in fury, hopelessness paralyzing him.

_Gotta stop them,_ he thought frantically._ Call Chris or Jeff, they'll know what to do –_

But the cleanup crew had already sealed the two bodies away, cleaned up the mess on the floors, and were hurrying past Justin, carting the bodies on stretchers covered with tarps. The Umbrella–S.T.A.R.S. followed them, and were rounding the corner.

– when one of them stopped, about–faced and _stared_ at Justin through dark black goggles –

Blind fear numbed Justin's every limb as he felt the man's searching stare, knew that he had been recognized before he had even realized the potential danger he was in –

_S__tupid asshole, _stupid– _MOVE!_

But one of the man's fellows grasped the stationary officer by the elbow, wheeling him around. The first strained to look back over his shoulder at Justin, but then they both disappeared around the corner, conversing in loud voices.

_They know I'm here. They know I'm still in Sheena, dammitt – why did I come back? Now they're going to try and hunt me down again and everyone who knows anything about the T-Virus – anyone involved –_

And his thoughts oriented on someone he hadn't thought of, perhaps the second party in a mystery who is introduced, then promptly forgotten.

The girl. Haydn. The one he had pulled from the perp's arms and who had kissed him by way of thanks –

_They're going to kill her too. She's seen the virus, she knows it has something to do with Umbrella. If they don't know already, they'll find out – Jeff said they had their methods –_

He turned to the nurse, feeling as though leaden weights were rooting him to the spot where he stood. "Haydn," he stammered, barely managing to get the name out. "What room is she in?"

The nurse seemed dazed by the in–and–out appearance of Umbrella as well, but he managed to snap back into a relatively normal state of mind.

"What?" he asked.

"The girl. Her name's Haydn – she was in Trauma. I need to know what room she's in. She hasn't been released yet, has she?"

The man shrugged, a habit of his it seemed. "I'm not sure – you'll have to check at the desk. I don't work in Trauma."

"Thanks," Justin barely got out, and he forced his legs to move, propelling him in the direction of the receptionist desk.

The woman seated there looked up as he neared. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked.

"Yes," Justin said, clearing his throat, trying to sound normal, controlled. "I need to know what room a Ms. Hadyn is in."

"First name?" she asked.

Justin squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember what it had said on his report. _Karen? Kayla? Kara? Kara – that was it. _His eyes snapped open.

"Kara," he said promptly. "I think that was it. She was in Trauma."

The receptionist pushed her swivel chair over to the computer, and she clacked away at the keys for a minute, giving Justin the time to attempt to regulate his breathing.

_Please don't let her have been released yet, God. For the best, please let her be here –_

"Okay, here we go." The young woman tucked strawberry hair behind a pink ear as she read the screen. "You were right – she's in trauma recovery, the mental wing. Room 42. Do you need an escort, sir?"

"No, thank you," Justin said. Relief made him giddy, and he could have kissed the young woman. "Floor two, correct?"

The receptionist nodded, snapping a bubble with her gum. "Right."

"Thanks for your time," Justin said, and he quickly turned and headed for the elevator.

He made the trip as quickly as he could, watching over his shoulder the whole time. As luck would have it, the doors to the right elevator opened just as he was approaching. He stepped aside to allow a nurse and a one–legged girl in a wheelchair out of the elevator, and then stepped inside himself. Watching the hall, down which the containment unit had disappeared, he pummeled the "2nd floor" button repeatedly, his right hand riding the butt of his handgun.

And then the elevator doors eclipsed his view of the receptionist desk, and Justin sank against the far wall, alone, exhaustion and relief bleeding its way from his heart and mind into his limbs.

There was absolutely _nowhere_ that was safe from prying Umbrella eyes. Chris had been right – they had their fingers in everything, they _knew_ everything, and they were smart enough to secure their position in all they were involved with. They were so respected that people were blinded to the truth – by their own high opinion of the company.

_We're so alone… so alone – there's no one out there who believes –_

The elevator chimed and shuddered to a halt, and Justin was out the doors in an instant, suddenly revitalized with purpose.

He had a mission.

He strode down the corridors, searching for room 42, still watching over his back and trying to act normal. It would be difficult for anyone to get to him here, but just the same, he had to be careful.

The halls were crowded with nurses and doctors, patients and their kin. Justin dodged and wove his way through them, doing his best to keep his pace relatively normal. Any running around here would be severely frowned upon, and considering he didn't have his badge – and Hernandez wasn't here to back him up – he could be kicked out of the hospital, if not arrested.

Room 42 was the room second to last before the hall took an abrupt turn to the right. A massive window was at the end of the hallway, letting glowing sunlight into the hall.

Justin's heart swelled upon seeing the sign "Room 42" above the door, and he allowed his pace to quicken ever so slightly. He stopped before the door, looked back over his shoulder to be sure that he wasn't being followed, then knocked twice on the closed door.

"Come in," came the muffled voice, feminine and definitely belonging to Ms. Haydn.

Justin did so, closing the door quickly behind him.

A heavy curtain for privacy eclipsed his view of the bed, but the lamp mounted on the wall was lit, letting him know Kara Haydn was definitely behind the heavy tarp.

Keeping a hand in front of his face – in case of security cameras – Justin quickly came around the curtain –

And felt cool relief to see her in the bed, sitting upright, reading a paperback novel. Reading glasses were perched on her lightly freckled nose as she craned her neck to see who it was that had entered.

Her eyes lit up with recognition as she beheld the cop. "What are you doing here?" she asked in surprise, removing the glasses and laying them in her lap. "I haven't –"

"Are there cameras in here?" he asked – demanded.

If she was surprised by the request, she hid it well. She pointed at the ceiling mounted camera in the corner of the room. "Just the one," she said. "Why?"

Keeping his face shielded with a hand, Justin grabbed the sweater dangling over the back of the chair beside the bed and tossed it over the camera, hiding it – and them – effectively from view.

_Just to be safe. Can't risk being seen or overheard –_

This accomplished, Justin came around the bed got down on his knees beside her. This way he could have a clear view if the door opened.

"Listen to me," he said in an undertone, seizing her left hand in both of his own. "You are in danger here."

He saw her confusion – probably mingled with some skepticism – but he continued without letting her question. "Umbrella knows that you know about the connection between the virus and them – the sickness the terrorist had? They tried to kill me, they'll try to kill you too. I need you to get out of here and leave the state – get somewhere where they won't know you exist anymore. Do you have family east or somewhere? Is there anywhere you can go – far from here?"

Hadyn had long ago set her book down, and her right hand had closed over Justin's. "You're scaring me," she whispered, and her voice trembled almost as much as her hand did. "How do they know?"

Justin shook his head and sighed heavily. "I don't know – they just have ways of knowing whatever they want to know. They have spies everywhere – even the Sheena Police squad is compromised. Nowhere is safe in Sheena right now, so I need you to get out."

"Where do I go?" her hands tightened around Justin's. "I have no family. Do you want me to just… disappear? Will that make them forget me?"

Justin shook his head helplessly. "I wish I knew. I'm going underground too – someone has to warn the public about what Umbrella can do, and I think I can fit the bill. Let's get you up and dressed – you're scheduled to check out tonight, right? Let's just push it a few hours."

She had already thrown one bare leg over the edge of the bed when the door creaked open.

They both froze for an instant, listening as the door shut again.

"Get behind me," Justin hissed. He outwardly displaying the characteristic calm of a police officer, but inside dread had knotted his guts. The handgun had unconsciously found its way into his sweating hand –

Whispering a prayer, the girl scrambled out of the bed and complied with his request. She clung to his back like a leech, her arms snaked around his chest, her face pressed into his back.

_I'll take the bullet for her – God, please let it count for something –_

There was silence, baited and tense.

Justin was sweating, knew that his outer calm belied his inner turmoil. Being a Catholic, he knew where he would go if he died, but that didn't stop him from wanting to live. He had things on earth left to do before he went home, and he didn't particularly want to go this way –

There was the shuffling of feet, and then –

Sigfried Vekama stepped around the curtain. His face was grim, determined, and then he saw them.

"Cantori?" he asked incredulously, his dark eyes widening upon seeing his subordinate.

The relief was cool in his chest. Justin straightened, starting to relax. "Sigfried! _God_, you scared the hell out of me –"

"What are you doing here?" the old man asked, stepping forward.

And Justin realized the other man had drawn his weapon.

He almost heard the _click_ in his own mind – the sound of everything snapping into place, that one piece of the puzzle that made the whole picture clear.

Sigfried Vekama: the mole, the Umbrella crony.

"What's he doing?" Hadyn whispered in his ear.

Justin had drawn a bead on the older man's chest before he could say anything further.

"Get back," Justin said, his voice firm. There was no doubt in his mind. "I'm warning you, Vekama. One more step, and I'll kill you."

Sigfried's whiskers bristled as he smiled, seemingly unalarmed by having his life threatened. "You'd shoot a cop, Cantori?" He shook his head slowly. "I thought you had better sense. Assaulting a law enforcer will only –"

"Get _out_," Justin interrupted, his voice deathly serious. "I'm going to count to five, and you'd better be out of here by the time I do or –"

"Or what?" Sigfried spread his arms wide, laughing. "You and I both know that I've won – that _we've_ won. I don't think you really understand just how powerful we are. No matter where you go, we will find you. No matter what you try to do, we will destroy your efforts –"

"_One_." Justin felt his jaw clench resolutely.

"There's no Hernandez to back you up now, Cantori," Sigfried said, softly and at ease, advancing a step, his gun leveled. "Go on shoot me. What will it look like to everyone else?"

He pointed up at the ceiling where the white sweater dangled like a cashmere ghost. "You've sealed your own fate – the only person to be seen entering the room will be you! You're not even a cop anymore, and your only eye–witness is a patient just recovering from mental trauma –"

"_Two_," Justin said.

Although he knew what he had to do, he already realized that what the older man was saying made sense. If Justin _did_ gun down his superior, it would not only be murder, but it would be suicide: he would never make it past security. Getting out of Sheena would be a whole other matter.

"_Three_," he said.

Sigfried held his stare, the older man's black–eyed gaze as cold as arctic tundra, as merciless as the grave. "You've lost," he repeated, sinister glee twisting his gloating words.

– and he shifted the level of his gun a bare fraction and pulled the trigger.

The sharp report jolted Justin, and he instinctively winced, expecting a hollow throb to indicate where the round had entered his body. He expected blood and pain –

But instead, he felt his stomach fold in on itself as Hadyn's hold on him slackened and she slumped to the ground with a sigh of relief.

He didn't think. He only acted.

Making up for his earlier hesitation, he fired once, sending one bullet through Sigfried's heart.

The old man stumbled back against the wall, dropping his gun. Thin smoke from the two rounds fired hung in the air.

Blood stained Sigfried's teeth as he grinned at Justin one final time. "You've lost," the dead man hissed again, and then he fell to the floor, leaving a red smear on the wall.

Justin spun, saw Kara Hadyn slumped on the floor, her eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, separated by a river of blood stemming from the black crater in her forehead –

"_No_!"

He punched the wall as hard as he could, not caring if he broke his hand, not caring that he had punched through the plaster, not caring that his knuckles were exposed and bleeding.

_I've failed. She's dead and I've failed… and now I'm a fugitive from the law –_

Someone was sure to have heard the shots. With tears in his eyes, he knelt beside Kara's form, knowing that he didn't have the time, but being unable to tear himself away.

She was so beautiful. Even in death. She had been so _innocent_, thrown into the mess of things unwittingly…

_And because I wasn't smart enough – wasn't _fast_ enough – she's dead. Lord, what good am I?_

He clutched Hadyn's cold, dead hand to his chest, squeezing it as though pressure would restore life to the dead limb, as though his streaming tears would wash the death from her body.

Alyx and Hadyn. He had gotten them both killed.

_The S.T.A.R.S. _he suddenly thought, opening his eyes._ You can trust them. You've got to get out now. You have to get to the S.T.A.R.S. That's what you can do –_

He released her hand, reached out and closed her pale eyes.

Thinking fast, he rose swiftly to his feet. Someone was going to come barging into the room any second, was going to find him hunkered over the body of the dead cop and girl, was going to see him holding a smoking gun –

He stuffed the weapon into the back of his pants and crossed to the window. Forcing the sill upward, he threw one leg over and pulled his body out cautiously.

_Someone's bound to see me –_

But he had to keep going – it was the only way.

Two floors up was still immensely high on the hospital, but he could see a drain pipe he could scale, and there were bushes below in case he slipped –

_I'll still break my neck, but at least I might live._

Once he had secured his balance, Justin reached back inside the room and lowered the window as far as he could, used his fingertips to shut it the rest of the way from the outside, and then began the dangerous trek along the narrow ledge.

He never had been one to be afraid of heights, but knowing how much was at stake now - and knowing that a fall could be fatal on two different planes – started his head spinning. Breathing in sips so as not to add to his sense of vertigo, Justin made his way across the tightrope, holding onto windowsills and ledges for support and balance, moving as quickly as he dared.

He reached the spot where the two walls met at a right angle, sheltering the drainpipe he had spied. After casting a look over his shoulder to see if he was being observed from below, he quickly lowered himself to a sitting position on the ledge. Wrapping his hands firmly around the pipe, he slowly began the descent, bracing himself against the brick wall of the hospital with his feet.

He jumped the last five feet and landed in a crouch, remaining low behind the bushes so as to look around. The parking lot was clear mainly, and no one would question his presence once he reached the blacktop.

Praying harder than he ever had in his whole life, Justin quickly stood and sprinted towards the lot. As he reached the sidewalk, he adopted a more leisurely pace, trying to remain inconspicuous.

Without a backward glance, he rounded the corner where the CVS and gas station were located, and left the hospital behind with his reputation.

And so, Justin Cantori became an outlaw.


	12. Act One

**Chapter 11: Act One

* * *

**Philadelphia S.T.A.R.S. HQ  
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania  
18 July, 1999  
0904 hrs (9:04am)

* * *

Anaeda Griffin sat in the sweltering security booth just inside the small lobby of the S.T.A.R.S. station.

Her mood? The usual, the obvious: pissed off. She was a fucking bag of hormones that had never fully made the transition from adolescence to adulthood. Maybe that was why she was still single, living alone, struggling to keep her head above the crowd.

Working for the S.T.A.R.S. as security lieutenant had its perks, but there was no leniency for tardiness. Judson, the chief, had a strict policy of "five for five" – in other words, five bucks out of the paycheck for every five minutes you were late. Unorthodox, somewhat unfair, but Judson was enough of a taskmaster that no one complained about it. And their superiors all liked him, so there was no one to complain _to_ either.

Anaeda had slept in that morning – until five fourteen to be exact – thus forfeiting any opportunity to stop at the Seven Eleven down on Market for a coffee before she picked up her shift at five-thirty. Cappuccino was her preference, but at the moment she would have settled for a sixteen ounce of straight black joe. The watered–down stuff they kept down in the cafeteria wasn't worth a shit, and the creamer was non–dairy to boot.

So that was one reason for her aggravation, one of two problems. The other was somewhat of bigger deal: around five–foot–eleven, two–hundred–fifty pounds. He was an arrogant prick, obsessing over sex when he wasn't grooming the Hitler–esque patch of mold on his upper lip that he liked to call a mustache.

_That stupid fuck._

Chad Benning didn't exactly make morning shift paradise for her, and now – suffering from caffeine withdraw and sleep deprivation – Anaeda wasn't sure she could deal peacefully with the man.

Her superior in rank and size, Benning was used to getting what he wanted, and currently what he wanted was _her. _He had been hitting on her for the past week and a half, becoming more and more daring with each encounter. She could have filed a sexual harassment suite, but didn't have the nerve or the desire to go to court. Besides, she was a big girl – she could take care of herself.

_But if __he ever touches my ass again, I'll break his hand off. It's self–defense. I can't get charged for it._

At least, she would have tried, and that thought in itself cheered her up, but only slightly. Benning may have been a jerk–off, but he knew that she had her limits. He had left her alone nearly all morning.

It was something, but she still felt like punching a wall or _something_ to alleviate her frustration.

If only the security station was air-conditioned. It wasn't all that hot outside – what with a nice breeze blowing – but the forecasters had predicted a hot one, and the greenhouse created by the large front windows made her sweat beneath the thick uniform.

She leaned heavily on her elbows, longing to lay her head down and sleep. The heat was dragging her down as she gazed out the dirty glass window, out the small lobby, and onto 31st.

Activity out there was always a humongous bustle. In fact, Aneada had barely gotten into the station on time, due to a traffic back up all the way to 19th. The passersby were entertaining simply because there were so many characters contending for survival: well–dressed businessmen, commuters, shoppers, and tourists searching the busy Philadelphia streets for the best sales and coffee shops.

The collective mentality both intrigued and bored her.

Anaeda was decidedly a city girl. She couldn't stand the boondocks where nothing ever happened, and so – when she had turned nineteen – she had left with her boyfriend and come to live in Philly. In the nine years she had spent in the city, her relationship with Pat had ended twice, she had gone to the local police academy when all other job venues had failed, and had ended up as a lowly security guard for the S.T.A.R.S. station in the downtown city.

Her expectations when going to the academy had not been meager. Although she had never confessed them to anyone – not even Pat – dreams of landing high–profile spots with Philadelphia's finest had kept her awake at night, and she had even considered going to the S.T.A.R.S. academy in Texas to become a field agent herself.

Too much money, she had told herself – _still_ told herself.

She had been working as a waitress in a seedy joint down Mason Avenue uptown, living off of a small salary and relying on the occasional checks from her parents to keep her going. She was headed in the right direction, but…

Well, anything was better than spending day–in and day–out in a cage–like security station, wishing every morning that she could have slept in for just five more minutes. This wasn't exactly what she had had in mind when going to the police academy.

_There are enough murders going on left and right in this fucked–up city. What I wouldn't give to be part of an investigation detail._

She blinked, suddenly distracted.

The front door of the station had opened and a man had entered. He was nothing out of the ordinary; a well–sculpted face and a neat haircut placed him at attractive, although Aneada would have liked to see his eyes. She liked men with brown hair and green eyes.

He was wearing an expensive suit and dark sunglasses, carrying a battered briefcase. The man unbuttoned his suit coat as he entered the room, revealing a white button–up and a nametag dangling from the breast pocket, although Aneada couldn't read it from across the room. He looked around slowly as though he wasn't familiar with his surroundings, and then headed for the security station.

Aneada watched him draw closer, vaguely wondering why he hadn't taken off his sunglasses, and gave a feeble attempt at a smile as he neared the glass.

"Can I help you, sir?" She hadn't meant to sound so bored, but there was no helping it.

The man smiled broadly, displaying white teeth that contrasted with the deep tan of his face and five o'clock shadow. "Yes, thank you. I'm here to see Captain Blake. I have an appointment."

Aneada jerked her head towards the metal detector just outside the door. "Step through here."

The man nodded and walked in the intended direction.

She paralleled him, grateful to step out of the booth and into the decidedly cooler lobby. She took his briefcase from him and laid it on the conveyer that would take it through the X–ray machine, then nodded for him to pass through the detector.

The stranger complied, passing through without incident. He retrieved his briefcase and exited the security station and into the main lobby. He didn't bother to thank her or even look back, which caused a minor pang of self–pity to burst within her chest.

Was she so unattractive that she didn't even warrant a farewell?

Instantly, she shrugged the thought away in disgust: if there was one thing she hated, it was self–pity.

And yet, she struggled with it so often.

_Probably mom and dad's fault. Didn't love me enough._

Watching the stranger go, Anaeda suddenly became aware of the frown growing on her face, rooted in the sense of déjà vu trickling through her guts. The stranger seemed very familiar, but there was no real way of telling – not without a closer inspection, and she wasn't paid to profile anyone she thought was odd.

There were plenty of characters in Philly.

And so, she returned to her lonely look–out point, hoping that she would _remain_ alone until three o'clock when she got off shift. But at the same time, wishing for some company.

Fuck it, she could never make up her mind.

* * *

Garrett Blake couldn't decide whether to smile or frown as he strode down the hall of the station, thinking of how easy it had been to get in without attracting attention.

The ease of the intrusion was unsettling, causing him to wonder how security had really grown so lax. Apparently _anyone_ could simply waltz into the station without showing some form of identification, citing an appointment or any other like reason for being there.

_Something to add to my mundane duties,_ he thought. _Something to think about later._

In discussing the operation with his impromptu team, they had considered using the employee entrance at the back of the station as their point of entry, considering that they all had security passes, but that would have elicited too much attention.

It was simply too much to hope for that the S.T.A.R.S. or Umbrella wouldn't wonder who the unknown characters were that were wandering around the building and letting themselves into things at random.

And so, with everything planned and rehearsed, Blake had dyed his hair brown and purposely neglected to shave that morning. Laura had done him up with disguise makeup, he had donned his formal wear and sunglasses, and he became Kelly Bradshaw, a reputable PI employed by the government – specifically, the FBI. Jason Cooger had forged the I.D. the previous evening.

It had been a harrowing task to get tickets and board an airliner back to Philadelphia all in one night. As it was, they had gotten in at three in the morning, which had left very little time for sleep before the operation. The return drive across the States would take them an additional two days or more.

_But the return trip is the least of my worries – at that point we'll be home–free._

The hard part would be what he was about to undertake: the first of a two–pronged "attack". Completing his objective was absolutely essential to getting out with what they came for, with their reputations intact.

Britnee Yaokee was his XO, a good friend, yet she was deathly loyal to the S.T.A.R.S. – a quality that was in no way a negative, but it would be detrimental to this particular operation. On the other hand, she had no love for Umbrella, but whether or not Blake could convince her to lend her aid against the corporation was left to be seen.

A lot was hinging on his persuasive abilities: without Britnee onboard, they were all going to jail.

Blake nodded politely to Greg Defkine as that member of the squad passed by. The shorter man returned the gesture without recognizing his superior, which only served to bolster Blake's confidence in the operation, if not the state of Philly's competence.

Defkine was the team's hacker and computer expert. He never failed to amaze Blake on a mission, but the man was a drinker, and his tongue tended to waggle when under the influence. Blake took comfort in the fact that there would be no time for carousing once Defkine was part of Freebird.

For secrecy's sake, Blake stopped at the receptionist station halfway down the hall to ask Samantha Reiner exactly where Captain Blake's office was located. He continued on in the direction she indicated, leaving her none–the–wiser.

Britnee's office was three doors down from his own, and he planned on dropping off a few unimportant papers on his own desk before heading to the sergeant's office.

_Have to make it look good, although I probably shouldn't let myself into my office if it's locked_.

He had left the door open, however. This surprised him, because he was usually very careful about locking up after himself. Notwithstanding, he entered the room and crossed to the desk, letting the door close behind him. He dropped the briefcase on the desk, then let his eyes play over the stack of folders left on the desk surface.

He then realized that he _had_ left the door locked.

_Britnee was in here; dropped the files off for me._

She was definitely capable of operating on her own initiative – just because her superior had inexplicably failed to show up that morning didn't mean she couldn't do her job.

Blake briefly considered browsing the topmost packet, but decided against it: being found in the office was one thing, but being caught snooping was another. He would most assuredly be arrested, and when he revealed his identity, there would be an inquiry as to why he was sneaking around the station.

_Might be able to talk my way out of it, but I'd like to avoid any stickiness._

Blake popped open the briefcase and removed a stack of nonsense papers from within. Most of them were articles from websites while others contained jumbles of disconnected literature; however, they were all stamped with the FBI logo and marked "confidential". Therefore, no one would actually go through them, so he didn't have to worry about arousing curiosity.

It was just part of the plan. He was dropping off some "forms for Captain Blake from the FBI", just to get in to talk with Britnee and Greg while the rest of the team was in the parking garage. Jason and Laura were going to obtain the weaponry while Davis actually brought the vans up to the docking doors.

Simple as that.

But that was only half of it.

Blake smiled coolly, liking the sense of control. _So far so good. Now if things go according to plan, Davis will pass me in the hall on the way to Britnee's office to let me know everything is ready._

"Excuse me, sir, but what are you doing here?"

Blake turned sharply at the sound of a female voice; he hadn't heard the door open.

It was Britnee, dressed in her uniform and a skeptical look. "Sir?"

Blake gestured vaguely over his shoulder at the desk, praying that his nervousness wasn't apparent. "I was dropping off some papers for Captain Blake – he requested them."

"Garett isn't in today, Mr.…"

His mind locked for a moment, and then he remembered the alias Jason had worked up. "Bradshaw. Kelly Bradshaw."

"Mr. Bradshaw. As I said, he's not in today – he called out for yesterday and didn't show up this morning."

He smiled thinly, arching an eyebrow. "Won't he get in trouble for that?"

Britnee pushed the door open and held it pointedly, her attractive face set in an impassive mask. "S.T.A.R.S. procedures are none of your concern, Mr. Bradshaw. If you wouldn't mind leaving now, you're not supposed to be in here."

_Good girl._

Blake obeyed, pausing only to grab his briefcase from the desk. Britnee eyed him out the door, then closed and locked it behind her.

Blake started to walk away – a ploy – but then he checked his watch and turned back to Britnee. "Excuse me, ma'am, but may I have a moment of your time?"

Britnee nodded politely, and Blake couldn't help but admire her then and there. She _was_ an attractive woman: thin face, small nose, a light dusting of freckles, pinched lips, straight brown hair shot through with blonde.

"Walk with me," she said. "I'm on my way to a meeting."

He fell into step with her, fighting a sudden panic. _The new traffic ordinance. Dammitt, I forgot about that. They're going to question my absence._

"Ma'am, I've a few questions for you about Captain Blake."

"I can't disclose personal information or anything I so deem unnecessary. Who are you representing?"

Without missing a beat, Blake spat out the false information they had put together. "I'm with the Government, ma'am," he said, producing the fake I.D. "We've been investigating several of the S.T.A.R.S. branches for some time now. I can't disclose specifics, but it has something to do with corruption in some of the higher-ranking officers. I need to know a little bit about your Captain."

Britnee stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes narrowing as she studied Blake's face for any signs of misgiving.

He kept his expression neutral and impassive.

Britnee seemed to relax after a moment, although she still gazed at him in curiosity. "Do I… _know_ you? You seem very familiar to me somehow."

Blake smiled secretively. "Coincidence, ma'am."

Britnee let this ambiguous display pass and resumed walking. "I can only give you limited information, Mr. Bradshaw. If you wouldn't mind giving me specific questions, I can answer them at my discretion."

It took Blake a second to respond because Phillip Davis had just passed the pair, giving them a nonchalant nod of his head. Blake was proud of the way the man feigned disinterest in their presence, and he felt a quick surge of adrenaline.

_That's the signal. The equipment must be loaded already – hopefully without incident. Now I just need to convince Britnee to get clearance for us._

He stumbled over his words as he fought to remember what exactly it was that Britnee had said to him.

"Erm, what – what do _you_ think of Captain Blake, ma'am?"

Britnee seemed taken aback by the question. "What do _I_ think of him? Well, he's an able leader, a good friend…"

Blake found himself almost wishing she had labeled him as something a bit more intimate than friend, was surprised by this find, and nearly beat a fist against his thigh.

_Stick to the mission, asshole_. "Has Captain Blake shown any signs of… _partiality_ in his work?"

Britnee's eyes flashed in a defensive sort of anger. "As opposed to _what_, Mr. Bradshaw? Let me assure you that Captain Blake has my full confidence."

They had reached the conference room. Through the big glass windows, Blake could see the officers conversing around the big table – Police, S.T.A.R.S., and their Umbrella floor director. Distracted again, he licked his lips as he searched for the right words to make the question more credible.

– and Britnee's jaw dropped, hanging open in shocked silence there for a moment, then raised a hand to her mouth –

"_Captain Blake_! What are you _d_–?"

Before she could say anything else, Blake had clapped his own hand over her mouth and pushed her backwards into an open office door to their left. It might have been Manny Pierce's, but Blake couldn't think at the moment.

All he _could_ do was kick the door closed behind him, and then slump back against it, heart pounding.

The whole fucking station must have heard her –

Britnee rounded on him, anger outweighing surprise. "Captain! What the _hell_ are you doing?! I _thought_ you seemed familiar to me when we were talking, and then you made that expression –!"

Blake snapped his fingers once in her face. "Britnee – _Britnee_! I want you to shut up and listen to me for a minute."

He waited until her stammering protests died away, then continued. "I am taking part of a dangerous, top–secret mission that the S.T.A.R.S. aren't to know about – not our superiors here in Philly, not our ultimate bosses in New York. I have need of equipment and vehicles, and I need you to get them for me."

Britnee obviously hadn't been expecting that response. She blanched. "_What_?"

Blake quickly peered through the window set into the door, to check if anyone was coming to investigate.

"You heard me," he said finally. "I need you to help me acquire the necessary materials I need for a top–secret investigation. And the S.T.A.R.S. can't know about it."

Britnee's brows drew together sharply. "You're insane. There isn't a way to get out equipment without clearance. There is no way you're going to just sneak out of here with whatever you want –"

"I _know_, Britnee – I'm not going to even attempt to _sneak_ out of here." Removing his sunglasses, Blake stepped in close and put his hands on her shoulders. "That's why I came looking for _you_."

Her eyes widened, almost frightfully, but Blake knew she understood. "I need you to come with me."

"Why me?" Britnee asked, her tone taking on more worry now – sinking her like water filling a boat. "I can't just help you with an underground movement or whatever it is you're doing, sir – we could _both_ lose our careers and be arrested for thievery and impersonation – _fraud_, Garrett–"

"Britnee, I want you to listen to me and listen well." Blake gave her shoulders each a squeeze, his face close to hers. "Do you trust me?"

Britnee's forehead crinkled at the question, unsure of whether or not it was a trick question. "Yes."

"Good." Blake released her, checked his watch. "This is hugely important. I don't want to discuss it here, but I want you to understand that I would not take measures like this unless it was absolutely necessary."

Looking at the floor, she nodded mutely.

Blake checked the window again. "Davis is in the garage," he said, speaking low and fast. "At my signal, he will approach the security station and request necessary clearance to take out three vans. He and Jason are disguised as mechanics and were granted entry to look at some of the vehicles. I made the request last night that mechanics come in and look at one of the vans because the engine was acting up. Since the request is made, the confirmation to remove the vehicles from the garage will be needed from Captain Garett Blake."

He gave her a calculating look. "Do you see where I'm going?"

Britnee sighed heavily. "Since Captain Garett Blake is not in today, his second–in–command will need to give the necessary authorization."

Blake smiled. "Right you are, Britnee. That's why I came to you. Can you do this for me?"

She shook her head, slowly, her eyes closed, brow wrinkled. "I… don't… Garett, I can't just…" Then, her head came up, and she inhaled deeply, calmingly.

"Yes," she said. "I trust you. I expect the full story later."

Blake leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, surprising them both. "Absolutely – when we can talk freely," he agreed, grinning down at her. "Now let's go. I need to pick up Greg before we head down to the parking garage."

Britnee's eyebrows went up. "Is he in on this?"

Garrett felt the sheepish smile splitting his face. "Not yet. That's next on the agenda."

He could tell she was amused, although the anxiety of what they were about to do kept it from her face. "In that case, let's go," she said. "No time to lose."

Blake opened the door for her, and they walked out together.

* * *

**Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. Safehouse  
****Couver Town, Nevada  
****20 July, 1999  
****1506 hrs (3:06pm)  
--**

Chris Redfield answered the knock on the door without hesitation, knowing by the heads–up from Barry (stationed as lookout at the window) that it was Captain Blake. The Raccoon Captain stepped back to allow Blake and the five people accompanying him to enter the room, then shut the door behind them.

"You're early," Chris said shortly by way of greeting, clasping deadbolts and chains. "We weren't expecting you for another day or so."

Blake smiled wearily and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the brown–and–blonde–haired, blue–eyed woman who had entered immediately behind him.

"Thank Britnee," he said. "She made it easy on all of us."

Chris extended his hand to the attractive young woman, smiling. "Thank you very much, Ms. Yaokee. We appreciate the effort."

She shook Chris's hand. "I'm still not sure about all this, Captain Redfield – I've heard no real details about any of this yet, and Garrett promised that once we arrived everything would be explained."

"In that case, he can explain it all himself," Chris said, coaxing a smile from her lips.

Garett chuckled wearily. He looked as though he hadn't slept since departing for Philly. Yawning, he gestured to the second new arrival. "Chris, this is Greg Defkine, our computer specialist. He's the one I've bragged about so much."

Defkine had graduated the S.T.A.R.S. academy two years after Chris had. He and Chris shook hands, greeting each other warmly.

"Welcome," Chris said warmly. "Always good to have a good hacker with us. You'll be able to get us into the Umbrella mainframe, right?"

Defkine was a small man, but he was in no way a stereotypical "computer nerd". He wiped his palms on his pant legs and nodded abruptly at Chris, causing brown curls to dance over his forehead.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "Whatever you need, you got it."

"Good," Chris said, clapping the man on the arm. "Okay," he said to the others gathered in the room. "Make yourselves comfortable. Marco will be back this evening for final preparations, but we can rest for the time being."

"Chris, did Cantori get back okay?" Blake asked aside.

Chris felt his smile flicker. "Yeah, he got back the same day you left." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the bedroom. "He's sleeping right now – all he's done for the past day is sleep. Something must have happened back in Sheena, but he won't say what it was."

Blake nodded slowly as his five team members sank into various chairs and sofas, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I see. Will he be up for the main operation?"

Chris shrugged. "Jeff says he'll see to it. They've been friends since childhood, so if anyone can help Cantori, it's Jeff."

"The kid's got heart," Barry said, coming to join the conversation. "He'll be fine."

"Yeah – don't worry." Chris stretched broadly, groaning as his shoulders popped. "You look like hell, Garrett. Have a drink, relax. You can be uptight for the strike tomorrow night."

Blake tossed him a salute and removed himself to the kitchen for a beer.

"Hopefully there won't be any reason to be uptight," he said to himself, working the Coors around in his mouth. There was no one in the room to hear him, but his murmur would have been barely perceptible anyway.

* * *

Justin Cantori looked up as Jeff dropped onto the foot of the bed.

The safehouse was silent, save for the window air conditioners buzzing in the next room. All of the S.T.A.R.S. were sleeping, despite the fact that it was three in the afternoon. It was the calm before the storm, the last solace before all hell broke loose.

Tonight, they were going in. They would rendezvous with the others in the swamps – to avoid any unnecessary suspicion by travelling as a caravan. The forecast called for evening showers and possibly thunderstorms, which meant that it would be relatively humid when they headed out. Weather factors aside, the operation was predicted to run smoothly, due to the precautions and safety measures upon which Chris had insisted.

But there were still another four hours of downtime until final preparations would be made, and that was more than enough time – too much for the restless. In fact, Barry had been sleeping since ten that morning, and the rest followed his example the moment their nerves became too much to handle by pacing.

Although Justin wasn't tired, he had taken the right side of the queen–sized in the bedroom just so he could be alone for a while. Jill had taken the other side shortly thereafter, but that was okay: she wasn't one to bring up uncomfortable topics of conversation.

As Jeff entered the bedroom, her back was to Justin, and she was dozing peacefully. Justin tried a smile, but even if he had managed anything at all, it wouldn't have made much of a difference. Jeff could see right through any emotion he faked – it had always been that way.

Before his friend could say anything though, Justin spoke.

"How come I'm not infected?" he asked – quietly, so as not to wake Jill.

Jeff frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"I got Bill's blood on me," Justin said, dropping his gaze to the patchwork quilt. "That night in the Granford House. The kidnapper bit Bill's throat, and he was infected. And I got blood all over me."

Jeff's eyebrows evened out with understanding. "The kidnapper was infected, you mean."

Justin nodded. "Bill went over the day I went with Blake back to Sheena." He swallowed hard and felt the tears stinging his eyes. He hadn't shared anything about the incident with anyone – up until this moment. "I had to kill him."

Jeff put a hand on his friend's knee, just for a comforting second, then sighed as he sank back onto his elbows. "I'm sorry, Justin. I know these past few days have been… fucking awful for you. You shouldn't have to go through all this."

Sympathy was one thing, but excuses and apologies were another, and Jeff had done nothing wrong. In fact, bringing Justin into the ex–S.T.A.R.S. fold was the best thing he could have done.

"Just answer the question," Justin snapped, gritting his teeth. "I need to know if I'm going to…"

Jeff shook his head immediately. "No. You're not infected."

"How do you know?" Justin asked, but less sharply. Relief was already building up in his throat, but he refused to indulge the sensation without certainty.

"A couple reasons," Jeff replied patiently, "but mainly because Bill wasn't symptomatic when he bled on you. In other words, he wasn't contagious yet, because the virus had barely entered his bloodstream. It does incubate quickly, but it still takes at least six to seven hours before the first symptoms begin to show. Also, you must not have gotten any in your eyes or mouth. The virus can't penetrate flesh – only through orifices or direct injection. Finally, _you_ would have been symptomatic by now if you had gotten the virus from Bill."

He smiled genuinely, if a little sadly. "You're clean, bro."

The reservoir broke, and coolness slid into Justin's guts. Yet, although it eroded his anxiety, it did nothing for his grief.

He blew out a sigh. "Well, that's good to know."

"Hell, yeah," Jeff replied, smiling for real. He sat up on the bed, crossing his legs at the ankles. "Best news I've heard in a while."

"'Guess that makes two of us," Justin said softly, studying his hands. "But…"

After a moment of waiting, Jeff prompted, "But what, bro?"

Justin sank back against the baseboard, letting the crown of his head rest on the plaster. "I've gotten so many people killed in these past few days. I can't sleep because of it." He closed his eyes, but opened them again immediately. "I see their faces every time I try, and I can't help but think that… in a way, if I _was_ infected, at least I could atone for –"

"Don't even go there," Jeff broke in, and his dark eyes were full of early death again. "You'll drive yourself crazy. Let it suffice to say that you're _going_ to do all you can to redeem those lost lives, whether or not you're truly responsible for them."

Justin's head came up in an instant, and the anger in his guts churned. "How can you say that? Responsibility isn't in question!" He thumped his chest hard with an open palm. "Because of _me_, two police officers and an innocent girl are fucking _dead_! How can I really justify that, no matter what I do? Penance? Prayer? God might forgive me for what I've done, Jeff, but _I_ can't."

Jeff's face hardened. Silence rang in the room just as suddenly, and the two friends glared at one another, but it was hatred united against a common enemy.

Finally, Jeff sighed and got to his feet. "I was going to bring you a beer," he said, trying to sound natural, "but Chris wants everybody sober for tonight."

"Yeah, no room for mistakes," Justin grunted, suddenly unable to meet Jeff's gaze. A new type of guilt was clawing at his insides, because he had just lashed out at the man who had been closer than a brother to him his entire life.

"Don't worry about tonight," Jeff said gruffly, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "You'll do fine. Maybe we'll even get that checkmate we've been looking for."

"Yeah, maybe," Justin agreed softly, although he didn't really feel any optimism. He opened his mouth again – to at least apologize for being so insensitive – but Jeff was already leaving the room. A moment later, Justin heard the _snick_ of the deadbolt being withdrawn, and then the gentle click of the front door closing in his friend's wake.

The house was silent again.

Jill rolled over suddenly. For a moment, Justin thought she was still sleeping, but then – as she faced him – he saw that her eyes were open. She studied him carefully in silence, tucking a hand beneath the ratty pillow to support her head.

"Jeff never told you how or why he got involved with us, did he?" she asked softly.

Justin opened his mouth in surprise, but then closed it. Mutely, he shook his head.

Jill sighed, dropping her gaze from his. "I'd tell you, but he needs to be the one, Justin. It's not my place to tell, since he hasn't done it himself. Just… just keep in mind that you're not the only one who feels guilty, okay?"

He said nothing by way of reply, so she rolled over again. A minute later, she was breathing rhythmically again, and Justin was staring at the far wall once more, lost for answers, hope, or peace of mind.


	13. Act Two

**Chapter 12: Act Two

* * *

**Umbrella-owned Grounds  
Maslin Twp, Nevada  
21 July, 1999  
2100 hrs (9:00pm)

* * *

The thin layer of mist hanging low over the muddy ground gave the swamp a ghostly pallor. The ebony sky was all but hidden by the shadowy crowns of the trees and a layer of dark, threatening clouds.

The night was sticky and humid, the air alive with the crickets' monotonous hum and the frogs' mating calls. The pools of dark, stagnant water that made up the swamp were coated with green duckweed and algae. Mosquitoes and other insects swarmed over its surfaces, invisible in the cloak of darkness.

The swamp was barely five acres, a messy thumbprint of marsh created by the Humboldt just several miles outside of Deeth, along Interstate 80. According to the information the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. had gathered, Umbrella had purchased the land in its entirety – a generous plot that also involved several additional acres of forest and what had been a landfill for years until Umbrella had put fences and armed guards around it.

Three black vans trundled silently through the deserted swampland, their headlights turned off. They slowly wound a cautious path through the thick outcroppings and copses of trees, the whisper of muted engines almost lost in the noise of the night creatures.

Before their sides had been spray–painted, the vehicles had proudly borne the emblazoned emblem of the Philadelphia S.T.A.R.S.

The entourage came to a halt in a small clearing and the occupants of the vans – all clothed in black – disembarked, no one speaking as equipment was unloaded. There were no orders issued; these men and women knew their tasks and would carry them out without question or hesitation.

A black figure disengaged itself from the group and took several steps towards the edge of the water. Brushing his hair away from his forehead, Chris Redfield took a deep breath of the humid air and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Stinks," he said simply.

"Swamps stink," the black ghost of Barry Burton muttered in an undertone, coming to stand beside him. His facemask was bunched around his neck, like he had the mumps. "It's gonna rain soon."

Chris glanced skyward, saw the flicker of lightning against the clouds' dark underbellies.

He nodded. "Yeah. Hopefully we'll be out before it starts."

"Hate to rain on the picnic – no pun intended – but knowing Umbrella, they will do everything in their power to make it hard on us." Barry was priming his Python as he spoke, although his eyes were watching Chris for his reaction.

"You're up for this, right, buddy?"

Chris snorted. "Barry, you're an asshole." He clapped his friend on the shoulder, smiling in the darkness. "I've never been more ready for anything in my life."

Barry returned the grin, cuffed Chris one under the ear in return. "That's the spirit. Don't slack on me now… _Captain_."

"Teams assemble!" Palmieri's whispered command was nearly lost in the noise of the swamp creatures, but the S.T.A.R.S. all crowded in around the first van of the entourage. Barry and Chris joined them, that brief moment of comradely support already behind them.

The sliding door stood open, spilling a muted glow out onto the agents gathered around the vehicle. The back seats had been removed and left at the safehouse, leaving a flat surface for Palmieri's wheelchair. A small table had been set up directly behind the driver's and passenger's seats with several laptops and other assorted components of computer hardware gathered on the top.

Once everyone was gathered around, Palmieri spoke again, still in a harsh whisper.

"Tom will now equip each of you with headsets," the Director said quickly. "That way, he, Ms. Chambers, Mr. Defkine, and myself will be able to observe what is going on inside and communicate with you. You will not be able to communicate with the other teams unless you adjust your frequency; should you feel that the need has arisen, consult us first. Are there any questions?"

* * *

_Yeah – are we gonna live to see tomorrow?_

Instead, he said: "Anyone seen _Aliens_?"

As Justin Cantori voiced the nervous quip, Tom Kurtz roughly hooked the small mic around the cartilage of Justin's left ear and fed the wire down to a battery–powered clip on the ex–cop's belt. Jeff offered a weak chuckle as Tom moved on to the next operative, but no one else laughed: tension was high.

_No one else probably got it anyway, _Justin thought, swallowing past the dryness in his throat.

Palmieri continued as though he hadn't heard the joke. "We have already divided teams. We have made certain that there is a qualified medic on both Alpha and Bravo teams, correct?"

Chris nodded; the Alphas had David Peréz. The Bravos had one of Blake's team – a Laura Piescotte.

_And I know a little First Aid in case worse comes to worse_. Justin shivered slightly, even though the swamp was anything but cold. _Please, God, don't let worse come to worse._

"Okay." Palmieri's hoarse whisper took on a somewhat emotional thickness. He didn't want to see any of the S.T.A.R.S. killed – especially on a mission that shouldn't even exist. "You know your assignments. Basic S.T.A.R.S. work, right? Just think of it that way and we'll get through this, but no one take any unnecessary risks, am I understood?"

There were silent nods all around.

Palmieri gave a grim smile, then saluted his men. "Right. Remember: no names, and operate with extreme caution. Alphas directly to Sector 2, Bravos to Sector 1, and Betas to Sector 1. We'll guide you once you're inside. _No one gets left behind _– living or dead. Break a leg."

Once everyone was outfitted with equipment Blake had gleaned from the Philadelphia HQ, the group split into their respective teams. Justin had been thrown into the "Alpha" group – the group that would take the elevator entrance.

"Bravo" team would be the one to split once they were halfway around the facility. Garrett Blake would take the "Bravos" and sneak in the employee entrance; David Trapp would take the "Betas" and go in the loading dock around back.

All weaponry had been equipped with silencers, and the Betas had CN grenades in case anyone was in the loading dock when they arrived.

They had all been designated numbers as codenames – the Captains of each group were simply entitled Alpha Captain and the like, but the rest were distinguished with numerals. The team leader for Alpha squad was none other than Chris Redfield himself, and Jeff had also been thrown into that mix as Alpha One. Their joint presence brought Justin a small amount of comfort, but his anxiety over the operation was debilitating.

_At least I'm with people who know what they're doing._

His heart pounded in his ears, despite his best attempt to relax.

Chris addressed the other five members of his team – Jeff (Alpha 1), Justin (Alpha 2), Leon (Alpha 3), David Peréz (Alpha 4), and Fred Eyong (Alpha 5).

"We move in the dark – no flashlights," the acting-Captain ordered in an undertone. "Keep your weapons out but do not discharge at _anything_ unless deemed completely necessary. I'll take point until we reach the elevator. Jeff, you have rear position; I don't think anything will be sneaking up on us even after we get out, but I want to make certain. The rest of you: spread out to five meters and widen as we go. Watch your step – this is a swamp and there are lots of muddy areas where you could slip or get stuck. Questions?"

There were none, so Chris nodded in a way that said "Let's make it happen". He turned and slunk into the underbrush.

Jeff tossed Justin an encouraging look, and the cop returned the grin. Apparently Jeff had forgiven him for their earlier words, although Justin was still brooding over it purely out of guilt.

Jeff's voice filled his left ear: "_Don't get soft on me, pal_."

Justin snorted. "I'm good, bro," he wanted to say, but nothing came out. His trembling hands didn't believe a word of what his mind was telling them, and he couldn't think of any smart–ass answer with which to respond.

Instead, he pulled his facemask up over his head and followed after the other Alphas.

The ground was soft and in places dirt was replaced with thick sloughs of mud. The brush grass rose to waist height, but Chris had ducked down into it and was walking in a crouch – nearly invisible in the dark – about ten feet in front of Justin.

Justin assumed the same gait and followed the moving stalks in front of him, taking long strides so as to keep up with the others.

They moved like wraiths, maximizing the advantages the darkness offered them. The undergrowth slowed their progress considerably, wrapping around their ankles and tripping them up. The humidity caused sweat to break out on their brows, and Justin's hair was soon clinging to his neck and face, itching beneath his mask.

The black bulk of the Umbrella lab grew in mass as they viewed it through the trees. The sight of its massive hulk was enough to tie a knot in Justin's guts, but he forced apprehension away.

The feeling certainly wasn't alien: he had always gotten that same sense of unease whenever he had gone into a life or death situation. The foreknowledge he had of what might transpire within those black walls was enough to give his fear a firm base.

Still, he had never felt nerves this badly before.

_There is the possibility that I will never set foot outside those walls once I step inside. Well, if I have to go, I'll be the last one to die._

At a distance of twenty meters from the location where the tree/elevator was supposed to be, Chris's inky form raised its right hand, signaling a halt. He whispered the order into their ears via the headsets.

"_Hold_."

Justin squatted in the depths of the weeds, fingering the silencer fitted to his Beretta. _Trouble?_

Chris was signaling to Jeff – crouched less than thirty meters away – only ten behind Justin; that individual nodded and dropped to his belly, disappearing from view entirely.

Chris pivoted slightly and motioned for the others to do likewise before complying with his own orders. "_Down_," he whispered into their ears via the headsets.

_The cameras. He wants to be safe._

Justin immediately felt dampness soaking through the elbows and knees of his borrowed S.T.A.R.S. jumpsuit as he began crawling, but this came as welcome relief to his sweating flesh.

Within a few minutes of sliding slowly through the mud and muck, Chris's voice rang harshly through the night, signaling the halt. "_We're good – hold here._"

Slowly, hesitantly, Justin rose to a kneeling position, which brought his eyes level with the tops of the waving stalks of grass and cattails.

All around him, he could see the black shapes of his compatriots. The way they slunk wraith–like through the grass without fear encouraged him.

The black hulk of facility blocked the moon from view, shedding long shadows from trees and underbrush over the S.T.A.R.S. as they closed in on the tree that would provide them access to the underground lab.

Justin felt his breath catch in his throat as Chris signaled a final halt, then crouched beside the thick, gnarled tree.

"_We're ready, Boss_," the Captain said in their ears.

Marco Palmieri's voice crackled over the headset, faint in Justin's ear. "_When you've located the access box, tell me and I'll begin feeding you the code._"

Silence.

"_Okay, I've found it_," Chris said, and Justin saw him yank his mask down, just for a moment, to get a breath of fresh air. "_Give me a second_," the acting Captain said,"_I need a key to get it open._"

Chris had a belt around his waist with screwdrivers and hand tools in it. Justin had wondered what exactly for until now.

Silence.

"_Okay, Boss – give me the numbers._"

Palmieri began rattling off the most complex series of letters and numbers that Justin had ever heard, and he quickly lost track.

The cop remained in a half–crouch, surveying the surrounding wood for any signs of movement. He couldn't see any cameras, but knew that they were out there, perhaps keeping an eye on them right now.

_Could explain why I feel like I'm being watched._ He gripped the Beretta tightly.

"_Okay, Boss – we're in._"

There was an audible hiss that drifted across the surface of the cattails, drawing Justin's attention. Oak flesh had split evenly, revealing a small, one–person elevator behind it, dimly illuminated. In the blackness of the swamp, however, the light was blinding.

"_No time to waste, Captain_," Marco said urgently. "_Go, go!_"

Justin swallowed hard. It would only be a matter of sixty minutes now until Umbrella realized that their security had been breached.

Chris's black form entered the elevator, he hit a button on the internal elevator panel, and disappeared into the earth. Oak flesh slid back down to cover the elevator shaft.

"_I'm descending rapidly,_" his disembodied voice said. "_Alphas, wait for my 'okay' to come down. Remember, we only have an hour at best._"

Silence.

Justin continued his watch, his heart pounding again. If Chris went down – to a virus or to armed guards – the operation would be dead, and the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. would be among the hunted again. Perhaps forever.

_That's worst–case scenario you're thinking again. Dammitt, why can't you be optimistic for once in your life?_

Silence.

"_Okay, I'm in_," Chris's voice said suddenly, making him jump."_Quarantine room is empty, but there are people in the room beyond. Come down, whoever's next, but wait until you see me to exit the elevator._"

A black shadow disjoined itself from the underbrush and entered the elevator the moment the bark split again, revealing the returned carriage.

"_Coming down, Captain_," Leon's voice said in their ears.

"_Bravo team, you are clear to head out_," Marco said in their ears."_Remember your orders and stick to the plan – I don't want anyone getting hurt._"

"_Roger that, Boss_," David Trapp's clipped voice said before Palmieri scrambled the frequency, and Justin could picture Trapp waving the members of his squad forward.

"_Beta team is moving out,_" Greg Defkine informed them.

Operation Freebird was irreversibly underway.

* * *

Jill Valentine was a woman who hated being in the wrong situation, a reasonable hate bred by a lifetime worth of experience and the teaching hand of her beloved father. Being in a place where nightmares were birthed was certainly not an ideal circumstance.

But she knew her duty, and more than that, she knew what was at stake. Courage was something she didn't lack: it was merely her common sense that made her cautious. Simply put, Umbrella's presence in the swamp made the entire place a virtual deathtrap, and it was a situate Jill would rather die than enter.

_But we've got a job to do. This could spell the end of the fight._

Although her instincts warned her that being overly optimistic would make her take stupid risks, she couldn't help but think hopefully. On the other hand, thoughts of victory motivated her to move faster and temporarily forget just how disgusting the swamps were.

Progress through the muck was slow, but Jill was the patient sort. The air tasted sour through the facemask she wore, and she kept the Beretta in her right hand, walking in a three–limbed half–crouch, following the shadow that was David Trapp as it wound its way through the underbrush and around stunted swamp trees.

It took about ten minutes of breathless silence to clear the swamp and reach the small meadow that lay bathed in the glow cast by a rack of floodlights mounted on the southernmost wall of the facility. Skirting the edges of the clearing, the five "Beta" S.T.A.R.S. made their way around towards the loading deck – the entrance of which was located on the west wall of the plant.

As had been expected, only a few cars remained in the parking lot. Two, Jill noticed, were vans bearing the Umbrella Biologics symbol. The facility had to be practically empty.

"_We go in through the lot,_" David explained in their ears."_Lights are off – must be on timers. Hug the wall to avoid the cameras – I count four._"

No one else said anything as they continued through the underbrush. Their current trajectory would rendezvous them with the asphalt thirty meters away, and from there they could make their way through the shadows towards the loading dock.

_Too bad we can't afford to just knock the lights out_, Jill thought as she stepped out of the vegetation and slunk catlike across the short expanse of grass towards the parking lot. _It'd be much simpler_.

Simple wasn't the way the S.T.A.R.S. generally worked anyway.

They were shadows, invisible. The asphalt was a nice change from the prior mud, and their progress quickened considerably. With the breeze cooling their sweating brows, they jogged the fifty or so odd feet to the closest extension of the western wall.

David reached it first, and he immediately slammed his back up against the concrete to avoid being seen. His body was stark black against the brick. He began edging his way south along the wall, keeping his dark eyes fixed on the cameras mounted just above his head.

Jill hit the wall second, and it was with relief. In the cameras' blind spots, they could proceed with slightly reduced caution.

_Still, gotta watch for any we've missed._

It was unlikely. Barry and Chris had gone over the complex blueprints enough times to memorize them down to the square inch. If there was any danger of being seen undergoing this course of action, Chris would have thought of a remedy and told them how to exploit it.

The five Betas trekked along the wall for the space of four and a half minutes before they reached the southernmost corner of the west wall. From there they edged around the corner and turned east, out of the light and into blackness again. The shadow of the building eclipsed them completely.

Holding his hand up, David sank to a crouch and paused for a moment to observe the twenty–meter distance to the loading dock. The rugged blacktop was scarred from trucks and machinery, and grass thrust its way up through the numerous cracks. Stamped on the wall between the first two docking doors was the Umbrella symbol, grinning lustily at them in the floodlights' orange glow.

"The first one," David whispered, pointing unnecessarily.

Jill figured it was the best bet. The metal chain door gleamed with orange rust in the dull yellow lights mounted above and beside it, and there was only one threatening camera nearby.

_We'll have to take that one out._

There was no sense in being overly cautious now – they had already breached Umbrella security with the intrusion into the tree–elevator, and now the seconds were ticking away.

Rapidly.

"_Looks clear to me_," John Andrews said in their ears. He was crouched a meter behind Jill, his eyes sweeping the clearing.

Jill silently agreed, but it wasn't her call. She waited as David became confident with their surroundings, and then followed as the Beta Captain began moving again.

At Jill's immediate right flank was Laura Piescotte, the medic, and a little further out was the quiet girl from New York – Melissa Mason. Her pale eyes betrayed no unease from behind her mask, and her manner was fluid and capable – calm and controlled.

She seemed confident, almost at ease. At least the S.T.A.R.S. academy was still graduating topnotch grunts.

_We don't need anybody who's going to panic. Panic kills more than the zombies do._

The camera above the closest docking door – approximately four–and–a–half–feet above the ground, designed for an 18–wheeler to unload directly into the bay – rotated on the eight–second interval. Staying in its blind spot, Jill disposed of the camera with a single silenced bullet, and they quickly approached the door.

That simple action shaved more time off their hour's limit – malfunctioning surveillance equipment was going to attract attention. But it was still better than being spotted.

David spoke into his headset as Piescotte flipped open the control panel. "Boss? Beta Captain here."

Palmieri: "_Go ahead, Captain._"

"We need the access codes to the docking bay."

Defkine: "_Give me a minute._"

_We don't have a minute, _Jill snapped impatiently, but she kept the thought to herself.

"Captain!" John hissed suddenly from the edge of the wall they had just come around. "Headlights. We got a truck coming in – big motherfucker."

_Shit. _Jill felt her chest tighten as the lights grew brighter – rapidly.

David spoke into the headset again. "Boss?" His voice was calm still, but anxiety left his tone ragged around the edges.

Marco's voice came through strong. "_7-8-john-king-king-9-0-1_."

Laura was tapping the numbers on the keypad before Palmieri had even finished, and then the speaker below the control box emitted a friendly – almost welcoming – _beep._ The rusty chain door began crawling up into the ceiling.

_Come on, come on –_

David didn't wait for it to open completely. Stuffing his VP70 into its holster, he hauled himself up onto the lip of the docking bay and disappeared into the darkness.

"_Go!_" John said in their ears, appearing beside them. The shadows behind them were rapidly disappearing, prime real–estate gobbled down by brilliant headlights –

– _shit –_

Laura scrambled into the hold next, followed by Melissa and John, and finally Jill. David's inky silhouette slapped the door release, and it began to close, taking an eternity as the headlights grew –

A fraction of a second before the metal slammed home against the concrete floor and clicked shut, the brilliant glow of a semi's headlights filled the room and they saw it coming around the corner –

– and then it was pitch black, and they were alone, swallowed by the jaws of darkness.


	14. Infiltration

**Chapter 13: Infiltration

* * *

**Umbrella Research Facility  
Main Entrance; Sector 1  
21 July, 1999  
2108 hrs (9:08pm)

* * *

The hall – as much of it as they could see past the double set of glass doors – was dark; not even emergency lights were lit. It wasn't unusual, but something was inexplicably foreboding. The very scent of death hung heavy about the place – perhaps not literally, but their imaginations had all run wild.

They were prepared to face Satan himself within those doors.

Barry Burton nodded once sharply at Garett Blake, signaling that the Captain's back would be covered. He rested his right elbow on his knee, leveling the Python at the door ahead, tightening his finger on the trigger.

"_Approaching._" Blake rose from the bushes were he crouched and boldly approached the front door of the lab.

The rest of the Bravo S.T.A.R.S. stayed where they were, shaded by darkness and swampy undergrowth, each distinctly uncomfortable about Blake being so vulnerable.

They had disposed of all the cameras outside that would possibly give them any trouble, and the next step was actually getting inside. While they had all been leery about destroying cameras they only had fifty-two minutes left to get in and get out with what they needed.

_And then there'll be the complication of actually _finding_ what we need and getting it out intact. And we don't know what we'll come up against in there._

Barry growled low in his throat. He wasn't a pessimist, and thinking such thoughts only discouraged him. But at the same time, he knew his were legitimate concerns.

_Can it. Save concern for when it's really necessary._

Blake dug in one of the pouches of his black S.T.A.R.S. flak vest and produced the fake I.D. Greg Defkine had made up over the previous afternoon. Barry didn't understand all that fancy computer jazz the newcomer had been talking about, but from what he _did_ gather, the card would get them past the checkpoint.

* * *

"_Just swipe it," Greg Defkine said, holding out the card to Garett Blake. "It doesn't look pretty, but it'll work."_

_He had spent the last few hours agonizing over a laptop, studying the codebook David Trapp and his team had procured from the Utah lab, and finally producing the key card he now held._

"_That's it? Are you sure?" Blake asked, taking and turning the piece of plastic over in his hands. "It doesn't look very official."_

"_They're not gonna have a chance to frisk you, Sir. Trust me on this one," Defkine said with a self–confident smile. "I've done some research on Umbrella in the past, so I was already familiar with the dot–code/bar–code system they use. Complex, but predictable."_

"_Just swipe it?" Blake asked again, still sounding unsure. He mimed swiping the card through a slot in mid–air._

"_Just swipe it," Defkine confirmed, smiling._

* * *

Barry remembered laughing at Blake's concern, but at the same time, he had been worried too. It just seemed too easy. And on top of that, never had the S.T.A.R.S. willingly entered an Umbrella laboratory under "normal" circumstances.

_Going into the lion's den, with a fake I.D., with rookies, in the dark, in a swamp. Doesn't get much better than this._

There was a very audible beep as Blake slid the fake through the swipe slot. There was silence for a moment, and Barry was sure that it hadn't worked –

– and then a green light came on above the access panel, and a clear chime sounded in the still swamp air. Blake turned his back to the panel and put his hand up to the earpiece of his throat mic.

"I owe you one, Greg. Boss, I need the pin – quickly."

"_Hold. Okay, it's 8-2-zenith-john-king-king-9-0-3_."

Blake slowly punched in the numbers, speaking faster than his fingers moved. "That was eight-two-zenith-john-king-king-nine-zero-three, confirm?"

"_Roger that, Captain_."

Security at all Umbrella labs was always tight. Codes and passwords changed on regular intervals, and employees were always being moved around to keep maximum secrecy.

_But we got 'em all – all in a little black book from God._

Barry grinned as Blake entered the code on the keypad and the glass doors slid open mechanically.

_Open fucking sesame,_ he thought in nervous abandon.

Blake signaled the advance, and the other four members of his team came out of the bushes and advanced upon the gaping mouth of the Umbrella lab. Davis was on–point and the girl, Yaokee, had rear position. The former swept past Blake, through the second set of doors and into the echoing hall.

Barry was second to get inside, and he immediately felt the wash of air conditioning kiss his sweating flesh. The smell of the hall was sterile, and he didn't like it – he fancied he caught the scent of chloroform, and the idea sent a chill down his spine.

_Smells like that shit they use to clean up blood and urine. Don't wanna know how many accidents happened here._

He immediately longed for the fresh air of the outdoors – humid though it was.

Davis led the way cautiously into what looked to be a dark, yet innocent waiting room – if it weren't for the Umbrella symbol on the wall behind the secretary's station, it could have fooled them all.

A half–door extending between the counter and wall blocked their path to the hall beyond, but Davis pushed it aside and continued on, sighting down the barrel of his handgun.

Barry heard Jason Cooger moving stealthily behind him in the darkness, knew that the younger man had his back, and followed in Davis' wake. The half–door gave easily, sliding smoothly on oiled hinges, and Barry stepped out of that almost cheerful sitting room and into the real nightmare.

The short hall into which he emerged was lit only by a pencil–thin stretch of white light, which slid out from the crack beneath the door before them. Stamped on the white paint of the door was the orange and black specter of doom: the biohazard symbol.

Barry held up his hand to alert the others behind him that they were halting, and waited as Davis nosed the door open with his Beretta.

The hall beyond was white – floor, walls, ceiling, fluorescent lights. They emerged into a t–junction, the short hall they had emerged from being the short vertical jot of the letter. Their footsteps echoed in the long corridor, and they fanned out quickly to cover each other.

"What a big white hall," Barry muttered, and found that even a whisper carried, so he shut his mouth again.

The vacant corridor was silent, save for the empty hum of air conditioning somewhere above their heads. The white linoleum was spotless, and there was literally _nothing_ before or behind them but seemingly endless stretches of hallway extending forever in two directions.

There were doors, however – at least ten – leading off from the hall. These too were white, and only a few had windows in them, but there were plaques on the walls to the right of each door telling them what each room beyond held.

According to the painted orange letters on a large expanse of wall, they were in sector 1A. So far so good: at least their dated blueprints had been accurate.

Claire Redfield was moving silently in Barry's wake. Her dark, intelligent eyes were tracing each door they passed – ready, in case any one of them should burst open.

Barry felt a familiar surge of anxiety fill his chest, making it harder to breathe. It was the same sensation he had felt when he'd first learned that Claire would be part of Garrett's team.

Chris's little sister – Chris, Barry's buddy, longtime friend and companion. From the moment Marco had given out the squad rosters, Barry had made it his personal duty to see to it that Claire made it out alive. He knew that – if she were to find out his silent creed – she would be resentful, independent type as she was, but that would not discourage him.

_If you don't leave here tonight, little Redfield, then neither do I._ He grimaced, refrained from nervously glancing over at her again, and quickened his pace.

"Where to, Boss?" Blake asked into his throat mic, somewhere behind Barry. The Captain's voice echoed so loudly that Barry was sure someone had heard. He winced internally, but another part of him – the fighter in him – snarled in appreciation.

_Let 'em come_.

Marco, in their ears: "_Sector 1A is clean according to these building plans. You want to get to level 3 – the lowest level. According to Captain Alpha's research, sector 3C should be where the good stuff is._"

"How hard will it be to get in?" Blake asked in an undertone.

"_You'll need to find a key card. When you get to sector 3B, there will be a dead-end hall near the security station. There will be a statue on a pedestal, and somewhere in that base will be a card slot._"

Barry snorted, distracted from his lookout momentarily. Umbrella architects always had nurtured a taste for melodrama.

Blake was standing in the alcove in front of one of the doors. "Any idea where to look for the card, Boss?" he asked.

"_Card carriers could be any of the janitorial staff or higher–up executives. Search lockers and detain anyone you meet so you can search them thoroughly. That's our best bet, Captain._"

Barry grimaced. _So we're off on a wild goose chase._

During the seemingly endless months of reconnaissance, Barry and Chris had attempted to get names of staff and faculty, but had been afraid to pry into anything really restricted. They hadn't wanted to alert Umbrella to the fact that their files were being hacked, or the S.T.A.R.S. would have lost whatever edge their codebook bible would allow.

Well, now it all came down to getting dirty.

"Affirmative, sir. We'll begin the search right now." Blake looked up Barry and nodded at him once. The captain's eyes were calm, despite this new complication.

"Let's go," he said.

* * *

**Quarantine Bay; Sector 2  
****2110 hrs (9:10pm)  
--**

Chris Redfield took a glance at the luminous face of his watch in the dark. Ten minutes of their allotted hour had slipped by already, leaving them barely fifty minutes to accomplish the mission.

_Time's going too fast._

Hydraulics hissed as the small elevator slid to a halt across from him. The doors split and Leon's black body stepped out, blinking in the dim quarantine bay.

Chris held up a hand, stopping his comrade in his tracks. "Hold," he whispered into the mic.

The quarantine room was laid out as a regular square, ten feet across. The elevator was situated in the center of the room, its doors conveniently facing a blank concrete wall overlaid with metal caging. Behind the elevator's cylindrical shape was the door into the facility. There was no admittance panel or even a doorknob, however: it only opened from inside.

_Security measures._

Chris leaned cautiously around the elevator shaft and peered through the small square window inset into the door. He couldn't see much from his angle, but what he could see revealed no watchful eyes. Leaning back, he nodded once at Leon.

"Stay low," he ordered.

Leon nodded and dropped into a crouch beside his brother–in–arms. "Guards?" he asked in a whisper as the elevator doors closed and they heard it slide back up into the ceiling.

Chris shrugged, shifted his position on the metal grating that was the floor. "Can't tell. We'll need to blow the door though – no access panel."

"Shit," Leon replied, craning his neck to see the door. "Completely shaved. There's no panel anywhere?"

"Just a speaker there." Chris pointed in the darkness to where an inset speaker was mounted on the wall with a glowing orange call button beneath it.

_Gotta call to get in._

"Fucking doorbell." Leon looked around in the dark. "Jesus, this place is like a cage."

"It _is_ a cage." Chris shivered involuntarily, glancing at the ceiling as the whine of hydraulics signaled the descent of the elevator. "It's in case any of their BOWs get out."

There was an ominous pause, a moment of silence between the two old comrades as the lift continued to descend.

The elevator doors split and Justin Cantori stepped out warily, his body and face cast into complete shadow by the dim grey light from the elevator.

His voice was low: "Clear?"

"Stay low," Chris ordered, and he shifted to the right to glance at the door again.

Justin sank into the shadows again as the elevator hummed out of existence. "Time?" he asked, and his voice was calm.

_Good,_ Chris thought. _Jeff, you were right, bro – this one _is_ competent._

The Captain glanced at his watch and swore. "48 minutes. They've got to know we're here by now." Grasping the throat mic beneath his mask, he spoke into it in a low tone. "Who's got the C4 up there?"

A gruff voice filled their ears: the growl of David Peréz, one of Marco's boys; he was also their medic. "I've got it, Captain."

"Get down here ASAP – we've got a door to go through."

"Roger that."

"_Captain Alpha? This is Boss._"

Chris reached up and put a hand to his earpiece. "Go ahead, Sir," he said in a whisper.

"_I want you to be absolutely _certain _that_ _there's no other possible way to get in. I'd like to minimize the usage of explosives. It's too pricey and dangerous, not to mention it'll alert the Umbrella people._"

_If they don't already know we're here,_ Christ thought._ Jesus, I'm getting paranoid._

"This wasn't on the blueprints, Boss – there's no other way in." He took a step forward, adjusting his position so as to get another view of the doorway. "No panel or anything."

Palmieri's sigh was static in their ears. "_I guess we have no choice. Be careful, Captain._"

_Blows, but there's nothing I can do. I don't see any other remedy. _Chris sank back against the wall. "Understood, Sir," he said.

The mesh floor creaked as Leon shifted position beside him. "Make it fast, Four."

The growling voice of Peréz returned: "_Roger that._"

"Gotta get this party moving," Chris murmured anxiously.

* * *

**Security; Sector 1  
****2111 hrs (9:11pm)  
--**

Phil Mastox couldn't believe his eyes when he saw the red light flashing on the security display of his monitor. The mug slipped from his numb fingers and smashed on the tile floor, spraying hot coffee everywhere, but Mastox didn't notice.

_Oh, shit! Ferbert's going to have my ass –_

He was seated in front of the security desk again in an instant, his fingers flying over the console. Someone had tripped the silent alarm – that was what the flashing light indicated – and from what his readout was telling him, it was in the quarantine room.

_How did they get that far? The cams should have picked them up long before they got to the elevator, and then they would have to have a valid password –_

He scanned the rows of TVs displaying camera feeds, noticed that a good half–dozen of them were displaying naught but static. His suspicion was validated: _they knocked some of 'em out. Figures it's during the ten minutes I'm gone to get coffee. But where the hell did Benny get to?_

Knowing full well that he and Benny both were likely dead already, Mastox turned back to the security display before him. Eyes glued to the screen showing the camera feed on the quarantine room, he reached for the phone that would link him to the private conference room in President Renault's office.

He hesitated, squinting at the grainy, black–and–white image on the screen. He could barely make out the dark room pictured there, much less any intruder.

_Maybe it's a false alarm –_

There.

He had distinctly seen movement – a man in a black jumpsuit, blending into the shadows. There was a second one next to him – just as invisible as the first – and as Mastox watched, a third companion stepped out of the elevator.

_Who are they, and how in hell did they get _in_?_

Mastox felt a frown growing on his face as he grabbed up the phone.

_The best hacker in the world couldn't get into the Umbrella mainframe, so it has to be something valid that they've got. __Someone besides Benny and me is getting fired tonight._

And then he thought: _if they're lucky they'll _only_ be fired._

Grasping the mic built into the command console, he jammed the call button with a forefinger. "Attention, attention! Security has been breached. We have intruders on level 2 – the quarantine room. Shut down all entrances and close all Sector 3 projects until further notice."

He released the mic and instead reached beneath the desk and slapped the button on the underside of the control panel. Instantly, he could hear the alarm trilling – _blaring _– in the hall behind him, knew that the lights out there would have gone blood red.

_But where the hell is Benny? I need his password to make the call to HQ. Figures he goes and takes a dump when I need him most –_

– and the door slammed open behind him, filling the room with bloody highlights.

Mastox turned in his swivel chair and started to stand, ready to vent his anger on his companion. "Benny, where the _fuck_ have you b–?!"

"Turn it off!" The massive bear of a man standing before him was definitely _not _Benny Rijjer, and this individual had a gun leveled at Mastox' chest. "Turn the goddamn alarm off _now_!"

Mastox backed away, his hands in the air. _More than just three of them inside –_

Gunman advanced a step as two fellows raced into the security room – both male, and they were wearing masks.

"Kill the alarm, Three!" Gunman said to one of his fellows. "Do it fast!"

Mastox made to step forward – to interpose himself between the console and the intruders –

– but before he could even reach for his weapon, the big man with the silenced gun slammed into him, spinning Mastox around and pressing his face into the wall.

"Do you have any key cards?" Gunman demanded in his ear.

In honesty, there was one to Sector 3 in his locker, but these men didn't know that.

_They'll never get that far._

"No!" he stammered. "B–Benny had one –"

A voice from behind. "Search him anyway, Two."

Hands began probing his pockets and then inside his vest. A thought occurred to Mastox as the search continued, and it set his heart to pounding even faster, this time out of pure fear.

_They can't know about Sector 3 – how _could_ they –?_

"I don't have one!" he said again in protest, his lips grazing on the plaster of the wall: a massive elbow held his face pressed firmly against the cold sheetrock. "I'm just with security, man – you'll have to find someone higher up –"

"Shut the hell up and cooperate," the man searching him spat angrily. He loosened his hold on Mastox, but only slightly. "Nothing, Captain."

"Shit. Anything, Three?"

Another voice spoke from somewhere in the direction of the security console. "I can't find the others, but it looks like they're having a firefight in the room off the quarantine bay."

"So much for secrecy," Gunman growled.

_Fuck you_, Mastox thought, wincing as Gunman leaned into him painfully.

"Can't you disengage the alarm?" Captain's voice called urgently.

"Encrypted," Three responded quickly. "Ask him for the code, Two."

"Nicely?" Gunman snarled nastily, forcibly turning Mastox around and shoving him into Benny's seat. "Give us the password."

In the split second he had to breathe, Mastox saw his attackers clearly. There were three of them, although the security guard was sure that there was at least one more waiting out in the hall. Each was wearing black jumpsuits and flak vests; uneven stitching indicated where patches and badges had been roughly torn off. To top of their ensembles, each wore a facemask, leaving only their eyes visible through eyeholes in the black material.

_So who are they? Feds?_

Gunman gave him a shake when he didn't respond immediately. "You gonna cooperate, asshole? Tell me the password!"

It was hard to argue with a pistol at the nape of his neck. Mastox swallowed hard, his fear combating with his logic. "It – it's just a number code. Uh, _uh, _8-8-9-7-4-3-2-5-6-7-2-3."

The man called Three was a fast typist, and the wailing, raging alarm that was making all of their ears ring died away the moment he struck the "enter" key. The man was sharp: Mastox could tell despite being unable to see the other individual. He didn't like the way the other's eyes glinted smugly as the alarm ceased.

Gunman crouched beside him, the handgun still pressed into Mastox' neck. "Look me in the eye. _Look _me in the eye. Now, I want you to talk into that microphone and tell everyone that it was just a false alarm. Something's wrong with the security system. Apologize and tell them all to have a good evening."

"I can't do that," Mastox spat angrily.

_Either I cooperate or remain loyal. But I'm dead either way._

"I'm very good with constructive criticism." Gunman's weapon was suddenly digging deeper into the base of Mastox' skull. "_I_ think you can. Say it, and say it _all_, goddammit, or I won't hesitate to kill you right now –"

"Alright, alright." Mastox pulled the chair forward, and the agent called Three moved aside so as to allow Mastox access to the panel.

"Nothing funny," Gunman growled, leaving the threat implied.

_I don't think anything is funny right now._

But he said meekly: "Okay." And, picking up the mic, and pressing the call button, he repeated it all. He could hear himself saying the words – somehow his voice wasn't drowned out by the thrumming of his heartbeat – but the dead and apathetic tone wasn't his.

And just like that, he signed his own epitaph: _traitor._

The pressure from Gunman's weapon slackened considerably the moment Mastox released the mic and slumped back into his seat.

"Thank you," the big man said, sarcastic yet sincere. To his fellows: "Let's get moving before someone gets wise to this."

Someone would.

Mastox killed a smile, but it was hard not to be smug with a man like Albert Wesker on _your _side. _I never liked you much, but it's good to know that you'll be there to pull Umbrella's fat from the fire._

Wesker would like the idea of being the last one standing. Pride had ever been his vice, and Mastox had gotten that impression at their very first meeting.

"Tie him up, Two," Captain ordered, speaking to Gunman. "We need to keep moving."

"I can do better than that," Gunman said, and in the reflection of the camera screen, Mastox saw the big man raising his weapon high over his head –

And then the world went black.


	15. The Rabbit Trail

**Chapter 14: The Rabbit Trail

* * *

**Umbrella Research Facility  
Quarantine Bay; Sector 2  
21 July, 1999  
2115 hrs (9:15pm)**

* * *

**

The hissing noise was all it took to make Justin Cantori's heart triple–time. It was a sound like that of an enraged viper, curling by his feet, but amplified until the sound of its terror filled the whole room, filling them _all_ –

David Peréz – poised to plant his C4 on the door out of the quarantine bay – jerked around in the darkness and looked around wildly. "What's that?"

"Gas!" Chris shouted, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Gas masks, men – double time!"

Justin knew the mask was on his belt, and he fumbled for it as the visible cloud began descending upon them from hidden jets in the ceiling. His thoughts were jumbled, panicked: _Somehow found out we were in here, or it's some automatic security procedure –_

The air tank attached to his belt was tiny and would provide a bare ten minutes of breathable air to the wearer. Ten minutes wasn't a long time at all, but it certainly wouldn't take C4 that long to blow through the door –

"Oh, _fuck_," Leon said, patting his belt frantically for the missing air mask –

_Lost in the swamp somewhere –_

"Get moving, Four!" Chris ordered, his voice mechanized through the facemask he wore. "_Quickly_, dammitt! Close your eyes, Leo – don't breathe –"

"Get clear!" Peréz already had his mask strapped on and was acting before Chris had finished giving shouting. There was an audible _beep_ as the remote bomb magnetized to the door, then Peréz was releasing the mine and yelling at them all to get behind the elevator shaft –

– _timed? –_

A moment later, they were huddled behind the stone shaft, and Peréz flattened himself overtop the pile of their bodies, screaming: "_Fire in the hole!_"

The _boom_ jolted them for one eternal second as heat washed over them and the solid tremor rattled their bones, but Justin knew they were all okay because they were all moving again and he was following unconsciously on numb legs, acutely aware of the ringing in his ears –

Leon was the first to dive through the smoking crater where the door had been. His handgun flared three or four times in the smoky shade –

"Six guards!" Justin heard Chris yell – sounding extremely far away, as his ears were ringing – but he knew what to do. "Remove your silencers – save the charge!"

– _suppressing fire,_ he ordered himself._ Give the others time to get in and cover Leon's ass –_

_BAMBAMBAM_

Peréz ducked as a hail of bullets ripped through the smoke, striking sparks from the grate covering the stone walls, and Justin dropped to the floor as the deadly hail began scything towards him –

_Who's there to shoot back at us?_ He fired blindly through the smoking hole of the door, praying Leon had enough sense to get clear.

"Go, go, go, go, _go_!" Chris screamed, firing around the corner of the elevator and into the room beyond. "Alphas topside: get the hell down here _now_!"

Jeff's voice: "_Cavalry's on the way, Sir._"

As the sounds of screaming from the room beyond met their ears, Justin dove for the far wall – the east. He hit it hard, flattening himself against the metal grate as fire tracked his position, the bullets striking sparks from the metal walls –

– and Chris was inside, passing through the smoke, screaming at Justin for cover –

– who was only too happy to oblige. Sighting down the Beretta's nose, he tracked the smoky figure running in a crouch behind a row of blinking control panels. It couldn't be one of the Alphas – the shadow was too far away.

Justin's first bullet caught the man in his shoulder, spinning him around. The second missile smacked into one of the man's left ribs, leaving him gasping on the floor –

– and suddenly there were more S.T.A.R.S. beside him, and he heard Jeff's harsh voice telling him to move, that he was covered –

So he moved without thinking. Passing through the jagged concrete doorway forged by Peréz' explosives, Justin immediately ducked to the left and joined Leon behind a sizeable stack of crates. Bullets riddled the wall, tracking him again, but he would be momentarily safe behind the boxes –

There were a few more tense seconds as the firefight continued and Jeff – flanked by Fred Eyong – exploded through the hole in the wall and opened up onto the remaining defenders. They strafed to the right side of the room, staying low –

"All clear!" Jeff shouted a moment later, rising slowly from a crouch. His voice was muffled by the smoke, yet rang in the sudden silence.

"Cease fire," Chris ordered by way of confirmation. "We're clear."

Justin ripped off his mask and took a huge whiff of the smoky, recycled air of the facility to calm his heart. The entire encounter had lasted about fifteen seconds, but had felt like a lifetime.

"So much for secrecy," Chris muttered as the S.T.A.R.S. abandoned their cover and congregated in the middle of the room. The Captain raised a hand to his ear as they approached and spoke into the headset, which was concealed beneath his facemask. "Talk to me, Boss. Where are we going?"

There was a pause, and then Director Palmieri's voice crackled through all six headsets in the room. "_We're going to have to find you a back way, Captain. You've got reinforcements coming at you from the hall – 12 o'clock._"

Justin glanced at the set of double doors on the opposite wall. They swung both ways on reverse and would be difficult to defend, thanks to the staggered rows of computer consoles. It was doubtful that they were locked, and unreasonable to hope that no one on the other side had a key –

"Shit," Chris said, but calmly. He pointed at Justin, Jeff, and Fred Eyong. "Get me a barricade – quickly. Doesn't have to be pretty, just something to keep them out. Boss?"

As the three compatriots leapt into action, grabbing whatever they could find, Palmieri responded to Redfield's hail. "_We're working on it, Captain. I need you to just hold them off for a moment. If we can't find you another route, we're pulling out –_"

"How'd they get here so fast?" Leon wondered aloud, before Chris could protest a withdrawal.

A new voice filled their ears, but it was one they recognized.

"_There was a silent alarm in the quarantine room,_" Greg Defkine explained quickly. "_Apparently, a second access code was necessary to disengage it, but was not prompted for. The entire place is on alert for you now, but if you can get out of there, disappear for a while, you should be able to lose them – at least, for a time._"

"We got a live one!" Fred Eyong's shout brought them all around. He was crouched beside the body of a woman, keeping her covered with his Beretta.

She was dressed in a lab coat, stained with her own blood. Icy eyes stared up at them, blood streaming from the corners of her mouth. Justin's mind closed down on any sympathy he might have otherwise felt as the scientist spat a mouthful of blood at Fred. The gob of spittle fell pitifully short, but the defiance behind the display did not go unnoticed.

"Four," Chris said, indicating David Peréz, "See what you can do for her."

"No time!" Jeff shouted, and Justin – who had been pushing a metal drum in front of the doors – paused to glance out the thin strip of windows inset into the doors –

– and saw the black–suited commandos thundering towards the control room –

"Take cover!" Chris shouted, immediately ducking behind a desk. "Don't fire until they open the door, that's an order! Boss, get us out of here!"

"_There's nothing to get you where you want to go, Captain!_" Palmieri said, and his voice retained its tense tone even over the poor connection. "_We'll have to abort the mission _–"

"_No_!" Chris snarled in a voice strangled by frustration, anxiety, and sudden passion. "No! We'll hold here, Sir, until you find us another fucking way in!"

"Here they come!" Leon shouted from his concealed position somewhere to Justin's right.

Justin had situated himself behind another metal barrel across the way from the doors, partially behind a row of computer consoles. That way, when they came through, he would have a clear shot.

_One shot each,_ he told himself. _That's all I need –_

The squad reached the junction in the hall outside. The S.T.A.R.S. could see the countless black bodies flood into the intersection, exchange commands, and then a scout darted out for the door, hugging the wall as his companions sank back into the adjacent hallways of the t–junction.

He reached the door in seconds, reached for the handle –

"_Shit_, they have night gear!" Peréz said suddenly from his vantage point near the door.

Justin failed to see the significance of that observation until a split second later when the power in the room failed, plunging them into blackness.

_God help us –_

The door banged against the impromptu barricade, but opened enough for the now–invisible scout to get his arm through.

There was the unmistakable _clunk_ of something heavy and metallic striking the linoleum somewhere no less than ten feet in front of him –

– someone shouting: "_Grenade!_"

The sound that followed was less an explosion than a muffled _whump_. The detonation was immediately followed by the hiss of rushing air, akin to the sound they had heard in the quarantine room.

"They're gassing us again, Boss!" Chris bellowed – somewhere to Justin's right – as the thundering sounds of approaching commandos came from the blackened hall.

Justin struggled to get his mask back on in the dark, knew that several minutes of precious air had been wasted because he had forgotten to twist off the supply from the mini tank after escaping the quarantine bay –

_Security must have tripped the power,_ he thought in a panic. _Someone high up is coordinating this, or they have competent ground leaders –_

The doors banged on the barricade again, metal scraping on wood scraping on the floor, moving the pitiful barricade almost effortlessly. The sounds of intrusion nearly drowned out Fred Eyong's hacking coughs –

– and handguns flared in the night, taking down the invading commandos where they stood. Four bodies tumbled to the floor before the Umbrella people even began to fight back.

Justin ducked his head down behind his barrel as an assault rifle filled the dark room with lightning flashes and the sounds of .122 rounds chewing up linoleum. He waited a moment until the line of fire moved away, then peeked out again and fired back, squinting in the strobe light–esque illumination.

The two bullets he fired embedded themselves in the door and only served to make the gunman hesitate –

– just long enough for Jeff to pop up from behind a desk and neatly place two thundering rounds in the man's brain.

They were forced to duck back again as the muzzle of another M16 was thrust into the room. Its light popping was easily drowned out by the S.T.A.R.S.' booming 9mms, but they could still hear Fred Eyong's bloody coughing –

"_Captain!_" Palmieri's faint voice was nearly drowned out by the increasing sounds of the firefight.

"I'm here!" Chris shouted over the _ratatat _of automatic fire. "What have you got?"

"_There's another way out of there! Follow the room down to your far right. There will be a computer terminal at the wall hooked up to an empty test tube –_"

"Three, One –" (Leon; Jeff) "– suppressing fire!" Chris shouted, bellowing orders. "Four, with me. Two, get Five and let's move!"

Justin blanched. _Two? That's me!!_

And Eyong – Five – was still rolling on the floor, paralyzed with coughing.

He was almost afraid to move from his hiding place, but Justin knew better than to disobey orders, regardless of the cost. He was up in an instant, running in a half–crouch as bullets ate up the filing cabinets and computer desks all around him.

Fred Eyong was sprawled on the floor, still coughing. The cloud of gas – it had to be tear gas because the man was not seizing – had all but dissipated, blending with the light grey smoke of weapon fire, but the effects they had on the NY Alpha were still reigning supreme.

Justin dropped to his knees and got Eyong's arm around his shoulders.

"C'mon, pal," he grunted, bracing himself to haul the S.T.A.R.S. to his feet. The other man staggered, trying to help, but his racking coughs bled the strength from his limbs. Automatic fire tracked them through the room, as Justin half–carried, half–dragged Fred Eyong towards the end of the room where the other S.T.A.R.S. had huddled and were returning fire.

Chris was busy with the computer terminal beside the empty test tube – just as Marco had said there would be one. Strangely, the power to the computer and whatever mechanisms kept the tube running had not been cut.

"_It's apparently for emergencies,_" Marco told them as Leon and Jeff posted themselves at file cabinets, picking off the Umbrella people that grew brave enough to enter the room. "_We found a code, so pray that it works._"

He gave it to Chris – who was operating the terminal – as Justin and David Peréz supported Fred Eyong between them.

Jeff and Leon continued to return fire as the Umbrella people slowly began their invasion of the lab room, although with reduced accuracy. From the S.T.A.R.S.' new position, visibility and line of fire was greatly reduced.

Justin felt each breath becoming harder to draw as the air in the small tank began to run out. He glanced over as Chris's fingers flew over the keyboard, entering the lengthy code.

They all ducked involuntarily as the M16 suddenly buzzed to life again, bullets spraying the room in a wide arc: the commando was randomly firing into the blackness, hoping to hit _some_thing –

– he gurgled a scream as either Jeff or Leon – Justin couldn't tell whom in the blackness – ended the man's life with three precise shots.

There was an electronic _beep_, and then the glass of the test tube was slowly revolving as a hidden door in the floor below it irised open. Below, a dim hallway revealed itself, along with a wall–mounted ladder leading down to the floor.

Chris didn't waste any time abandoning the computer. "Two and Five first," he shouted. "Go now, and move quickly. Three, One: keep firing – cover us!"

They all hurried to obey their orders.

The firefight in the lab maintained its intensity as Justin and Peréz quickly got Fred Eyong down the ladder and into the passageway below. While David looked Eyong over, Justin ripped off his expired air mask and tossed it away, posting himself halfway down the hall, ready for any intrusions from the opposite way that they had come.

Chris all but jumped down the ladder, followed by Leon, and finally Jeff. The Captain slapped a button on the wall, and the door through the test tube sealed above them, shutting out the muted sounds of gunfire instantly.

"Did they see us?" Peréz grunted as he helped pull Eyong to his feet.

"Hard to tell – there weren't many of them in the room," Leon replied, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. "Just seemed like it. I give 'em two more minutes before they realize we're gone."

"And now the entire goddamn lab knows we're here," Jeff said, raising his mask to swipe sweat from his brow.

"No time to waste now," Leon said, giving the black man a slap on the shoulder. "We barely got out of that one, and we won't be able to do it again."

"Boss?" Chris said, speaking into the mic. "This is Alpha Captain. We're safe – for the moment."

"_They're still occupied in the lab room,_" the Director informed them. "_They don't know you're gone yet._"

"Good." The Captain's dark eyes fixated on a point past Justin's shoulder – down the hall where they had to go. Painted on the wall was a large number 3.

Sector 3.

"Well, we're in, Boss," Chris said, almost nervously. "Tell us what to do."

* * *

**Computer lab; Sector 2  
****2120 hrs (9:20pm)  
--**

By all rights, Albert Wesker was a man who was supposed to be dead.

Perhaps he should have been dead: hell ached with fury that he had escaped its clutches, and not just once. But the real question – the one he constantly asked himself – was this: had he _really_ escaped its reaches? It was only thanks to the work of White Umbrella that he still lived and breathed, and being indebted to that company was no better than selling one's soul to Lucifer.

Albert Wesker liked to think of himself as a survivor in that regard: that he had cheated death so perfectly. He liked to think that he was – in essence – immortal.

And perhaps, with the Umbrella Corporation to back him, he was.

But that was the flipside of the coin: the ugly, defaced side which he did not like to acknowledge. Albert Wesker was not weak, and he certainly wasn't dependent. Not on a company, not on friends, not on family.

He was self–sustaining, the Atlas, _god_. He was a man who took no chances. Albert Wesker liked to be on top of his game and most importantly, he liked to be in authority. Large and in charge, as the saying went.

With respect to his ego, it actually had come as somewhat of a degrading assignment to return to the Maslin laboratory in Nevada. As it was, he had only come on an errand, but the fact of the matter was that a lesser could just have easily made the excursion.

After all, a small, backwater laboratory like the Maslin complex was not a place he would put on his agenda for a pleasure visit – even if it _was_ home to a testing facility for the Virus program. He had not intended to linger – just to check out whatever the hell it was that Renault had claimed was so goddamn important – and then move on to matters of greater significance.

With an audible snarl, he thought: _It appears, however, that I'm going to be stuck here for longer than I anticipated._

Renault had disappeared suddenly, leaving Wesker with only the information that something very valuable was being housed in the facility, something like nothing White Umbrella had ever before achieved. That was it, and now Renault was gone indeterminably, leaving the laboratory for some greater reason.

Just musing over the numerous "greater reasons" boiled Wesker's blood, against his better sense. He never let things get to him, but Renault's gall had cracked even Wesker's self–control.

Part of his frustration was obvious: he did not like being swatted aside like some type of unimportant insect, like a lesser. And Renault knew goddamn well that Wesker – the last of the great Umbrella minds to have handled the T-Virus firsthand – was, if anything, his equal.

Besides, White Umbrella had recently upped its internal security, tasking Wesker with heading up a small inquisition team – to keep tabs on the higher–ups: the hierarchy of the bureaucratic corporation.

Wesker had christened the inquisition "the Watchdogs": the indirect follow up team to the original Watchdog mercenary squad, which had operated discreetly in Raccoon during the disaster. Now, they were all dead, and due to that fact, some of Wesker's new subordinates were uneasy about taking the name for themselves.

As though a name or an omen meant anything.

Karma, fate, coincidence – what the hell? Wesker wasn't superstitious, even if he was overly suspicious of everyone around him.

But that wasn't really odd. Ever since Raccoon and the numerous fiascos leading up to the city's ultimate destruction, _every_one inside Umbrella had been suspicious of treason. Being assigned the task of weeding out the double–minded was something to keep Wesker occupied, but it did nothing to sate his growing sense of discomfort, and hence was the second part of his frustration.

Long before Raccoon had ever gone under, Wesker had been slowly taking measures to extract himself from the self–designed prison that was White Umbrella. He had been looking for a way out – a _clean_ way, so that when the T-Virus was eventually discovered for what it was and traced back to the pharmaceutical corporation, he would not be implicated along with the rest.

He had resolved to get out sooner than later, but since Raccoon and the setbacks of the past year, his sooner had indeed become later. And now he was literally trapped underground, in the cement prison of Renault's laboratory, waiting.

_Waiting._

He sneered involuntarily, which only increased his frustration: his self–control was slipping again.

But this _waiting_ was unnecessary, and it chafed.

Part of him, a small and insignificant part, almost wished that he had died in Raccoon – with Birkin and Spencer, to save himself the misery he now dealt with on a day–to–day basis.

Distracted, Wesker felt a tiny smile tug at his face, one that was both reminiscent and self–satisfied.

It would have been absolute hell to die with Birkin, that paranoid prat, the creator of the G-Virus, who had been convinced that everyone was trying to steal his work…

_So paranoid he infected himself with his own virus – to keep it from us._

Wesker shook his head slowly, kneading his forehead with a fist. Birkin, Griffith, Marcus, Ashford, and Spencer. Without those five, White Umbrella would never have achieved anything. It would have remained a time– and money–wasting branch of the otherwise "innocent" company.

And the T-Virus would have been nonexistent.

But they weren't the only five responsible for the formation of White Umbrella. There had been another, the one who had started the ball rolling, even if he had never intended for his work to go the way it had.

Darius.

Thinking of him, Wesker growled in his throat. Again, the self–control. Those men were all dead, they were worthless now, and there was no sense in thinking about them.

_If you miss them so much, then build a fucking statue and move on._

The truth was that he _didn't_ miss them. In fact, he could quite honestly say that he was _glad_ they were dead. Life had been so much more complicated while they had crowded his existence.

Griffith had been undeniably insane, as had Spencer and the Ashfords – father, son, and daughter. Birkin and his wife had been a danger to Umbrella simply for safeguarding their research and holding themselves in higher esteem than the company. Marcus had been a genius, but his level of insanity had gone far beyond that of his fellows, a personality flaw which had been surpassed only by his brilliance. In fact, Marcus' level of insanity had surpassed even the collective mentality of the Ashfords, as he had been the one to seek intimate psychological connection with the Virus hosts. To better utilize their "abilities", as he had put it.

And Darius…

James Darius: the doctor who had been noble, quite unlike the others. His work had been the very beginning, the predecessor of the T-Virus, which had led directly to the formation of White Umbrella and its research.

_A regenerative tissue stimulant,_ Wesker recalled absently._ That's what it was. Intended for victims of vehicular accidents and other like trauma._

Darius had certainly not intended the product of his research to become what it had, and for that reason, it became necessary to dispose of him. Of course, it had been Wesker who had done the dirty work – in just the same way as he had personally orchestrated the deaths of Marcus and Spencer.

According to the records, it had been a series of unfortunate accidents that had led to the deaths of all three men and Darius' wife. Coincidence meant nothing, because no one would dare question – even if they were smart enough to read between the lines.

It was simply good for Umbrella that Darius and the rest were six feet under. After all, it simply wouldn't do to have madmen and heroes comprising the foundation of White Umbrella, a corporation which thrived upon principle and greed.

All of a sudden, Wesker found himself again.

He looked around, remembering that he was seated at a terminal in the computer lab in Sector 2, hunched over some droll report which Renault had left with him. Wesker's interest in old news and development had long ago waned, what with the current crisis and his undermining desire to leave Umbrella for good.

_But now…_

He wasn't sure exactly where his loyalties lay at the moment. They certainly didn't reside with Umbrella, and the S.T.A.R.S. had no love for him, that was for sure. He had a few friends in the government – if they could be called such – but not enough staked claim in politics to make a living in D.C.

And so he remained torn. There were things he had left to accomplish before he severed ties to Umbrella completely. But if need be, he was ready to flee at the drop of a hat.

His gaze slid over the computer screen, unfocused. Working with the Watchdogs was like being in Raccoon all over again, except now they were looking inside instead of working cover–up. He liked heading up the operation, partly because it gained him a higher level of access into Umbrella's archived research. But more than that, his involvement with the inquisition meant that _he_ wouldn't be investigated.

Although he had nothing incriminating to hide – at least, nothing to do with Raccoon – he still felt that it would be in his own best interests to keep Umbrella from prying into his overly ambitious affairs.

Such a level of command also reassured him that White Umbrella's trust in him had not yet wavered, which meant he had reliable backup for the time being, in addition to the freedom to slowly begin his preparations.

Without warning, the alarms in the complex suddenly blared to life.

Albert Wesker let nothing surprise him. He sat up in his chair slowly, looking around at the computer lab, which was now bathed in the red blood of warning lights.

"_Security has been breached,_" a voice said from one of the speakers in the ceiling. "_We have intruders on level two – the quarantine room. Shut down all entrances and close all projects until further notice_."

_The quarantine room? Level two?_ Wesker got to his feet, feeling a deluge of concern surge past his dam of confidence. _Can't be some happy–go–lucky teenager on a dare. No one can get in here without a fucking code._

Renault may have been an asshole, self–righteous and lacking any type of manners whatsoever, but the man was a stickler for security. He had taken elaborate measures to beef up security on the facility, because it housed strains of the T-Virus.

And hence another reason for Wesker's discomfort. He was certain that Renault had had nothing to do with the catastrophic spill in Raccoon, but that didn't mean that whomever _had_ been responsible couldn't get to the samples housed in Maslin.

_And I don't plan on leaving Umbrella infected._

That was irrelevant at the moment, however. The security compromise was more crucial, considering that there were unknowns inside and Renault's indefinite disappearance.

Wesker smelled a rat when the voice came back over the loudspeaker and assured them all that it had been a false alarm. Something was wrong with the security systems, the guard said. He advised everyone to return to their normal routine and not to be alarmed, because everything was under control.

_Bullshit_.

Wesker thundered down the halls, his mood dark, his thoughts blacker still. He took the elevator up to the ground floor, stalked down two more hallways, and then exploded through the set of double wooden doors that housed the conference room.

It was empty when he entered, but that did not make him hesitate. He crossed the carpet to the communications consol built into the head of the table. The vacancy did not hinder him: in fact, he welcomed it.

He always had been a loner.

Wesker dropped into Renault's seat and immediately tapped the keyboard to life. Blood pounded in his ears as he called up the private line to Renault himself, and then he looked up as the projector screen on the opposite wall lit up and the call went through.

And there was Renault, looking at him with concern, perhaps annoyance. He cleared his throat, then said gruffly, "Albert, I have no time. Is this important?"

"We have a situation," Wesker said simply, without preamble. There was no need to waste time, and he didn't feel like wasting breath on the man.

Renault cleared his throat nervously, for once shirking his smug attitude. He suddenly seemed smaller and less imposing. Almost helpless.

"I am aware," he said haltingly, casting his gaze away from Wesker's.

Albert Wesker's mood did not improve. "You are?" he demanded, purposely injecting venom into his tone.

"Yes," Renault rejoined, raising his head and resuming some shade of his authoritative nature.

_To hell with you,_ Wesker thought in absolute frustration, but he kept it from his words or face. He knew now why Renault had left in a hurry: Umbrella security had learned that something was going to happen ahead of time and tipped Renault off.

_And you didn't want to get caught in the crossfire._

Somehow, either Renault or Security had forgotten to inform Wesker. "Do we know who these intruders are?" he demanded shortly. He had his suspicions, but felt that it wouldn't do to voice them.

After all, it was odd that his mind leapt immediately to his former comrades – the S.T.A.R.S. – especially considering the fact that they had disappeared the previous year. Besides, there were and always had been various bodies and organizations determined to steal Umbrella research, although none of them had any idea about the T-Virus.

But the S.T.A.R.S. were something else.

_Jill Valentine, Barry Burton, Chris Redfield._

The survivors: men and woman that he had appointed to Alpha rank himself.

Valentine with her eclectic past and extraordinarily high IQ. Redfield: insecure and possessed of as many suspicions as a politician, a dead–aim and a natural leader. Burton: a passionate family man, smart, and strong as a bull.

Well, they were all human. They all had their vulnerabilities, and Burton's had certainly been the easiest to exploit. Yet, they had performed admirably against the T-Virus and learned the truth behind Umbrella's pretense faster than even Wesker could have predicted.

And they had nearly killed him.

_Is it possible that they've returned?_

Renault shook his head jerkily, oblivious to Wesker's somewhat irrational thinking. "No, not yet," he answered brusquely. "We are entrusting that to you, Albert."

Nothing surprised Albert Wesker. He was, after all, involved in the highest level of Umbrella security. So now he had more on his plate – more problems to sort out: a security compromise, an intrusion, _and _the treason inside Umbrella.

_Albert Wesker to the fucking rescue._

There had been a point in very recent history where such a thing would have actually pleased him: at one point he had fancied himself the one man Umbrella could fall back on in times of crisis.

But now he was through.

"They have already infiltrated the main Control Room via the Quarantine Bay, and there are at least ten individuals," he told Renault emotionlessly. "It would seem to me that this is not a minor incident."

Renault had never been shifty, but now he was sweating and refusing to meet Wesker's gaze at all. "Yes, ah, well, there is the matter of a… missing codebook." He swallowed hard, visibly. "Reston was murdered in Utah this October past, Albert."

Nothing surprised Albert Wesker –

– more than this. Stunned into silence, he found for a moment that he couldn't breathe.

Jay Reston had been on the board of Umbrella Directors – the inner circle, as it were. While his mind had not played a key role in any of Umbrella's virus programs, he had been a vital component nonetheless. One of the codebook bibles had been entrusted to his possession: he had kept it on his person at all times.

Wesker remembered Reston as being another pompous Umbrella asshole: self–confident, but not all that bright, and he couldn't honestly say that he was sorry to hear that the man was dead. But Reston had made himself untouchable, and by removing himself to Utah, had gone completely off the radar.

Yet, to Wesker, Reston was just another tally, one more percentage to join the rest of deceased Umbrella minds. He was simply one less person Wesker would have to put down himself.

However, Reston's death meant two very important things.

One, it validated Wesker's suspicions unlike anything else: this in and of itself proved that the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. were back on their feet. The theft of the codebook could only come about through careful planning and an organized front. Redfield must have taken over the group – he was bright, he could have organized a strike like that.

But the real question was how they had come by their information.

_It's almost like they had someone on the inside,_ Wesker thought. Umbrella surveillance was incredibly tight, and there was little within the company that the board of Directors did not know about. What little they _didn't _see, Wesker was looking into, and it had everything to do with Raccoon.

But now, one of the elite was dead, and that had gone completely unforeseen.

The second thing was Reston's death meant was that Umbrella – already in hot water after the Raccoon fiasco – was threatened with ultimate destruction, now that a book containing the very life blood of Umbrella had fallen into the wrong hands.

Wesker didn't want to think about those implications, but he already knew what it meant: if security had been compromised here, then where else?

And beyond a shadow of a doubt, Wesker knew what the S.T.A.R.S. were after, and why they had chosen a lab complex in such an out–of–the–way location like Maslin.

They wanted the T-Virus, and this was the easiest way to get it.

He wasn't surprised. In fact, had they sought something else he might even have been disappointed by their lack of imagination.

However strangely, Wesker found that he was merely concerned by the circumstances. The S.T.A.R.S.' motivation for the strike was obvious, and it was certainly bold. There was no doubt that they were getting stronger, and if they pulled off their agenda tonight…

His departure from the Umbrella fold suddenly loomed closer – tantalizing, and yet undesirable at the current moment.

So he had even _more_ to do. Now, he had to prevent the S.T.A.R.S. from obtaining a sample of the virus. But it certainly wouldn't be for Umbrella. They could go to hell for all he cared.

If there was anything – or anyone – he hated more than Umbrella, it was the S.T.A.R.S. Despite his waning loyalty to the company, he knew – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that the Virus could not fall into the hands of the S.T.A.R.S.

They had chosen just the right timing to strike. They must have learned about the virus strain now being housed in Maslin – must have stolen the codebook and saved it for just the right opportunity. And they'd found such a one now.

_It speaks wonders of their resourcefulness, _he thought grimly, growling in his throat. _They've bided their time for long enough. __From now on out, they'll grow more active – especially if they succeed with their mission tonight._

Wesker's anger grew as he found his voice. "Why has it taken so long for us to learn of this?"

Renault seemed almost indignant over the demand – as though Umbrella knew everything and to suggest otherwise was an act of treason.

"Oh, Umbrella knew, Albert," he said, as though this information was supposed to be reassuring.

Well, it wasn't.

"And why, pray tell, wasn't I informed?" Wesker asked calmly, although his inner emotion was calling for blood.

If it was possible, Renault suddenly seemed even more uncomfortable. "Wasn't proper procedure," he murmured, not meeting Wesker's violent gaze.

_Fuck procedure. _Wesker gritted his teeth. Here was just another example of how far Umbrella had fallen, yet another reason he wanted out.

It seemed that he could find motivation everywhere.

"What happened?" he demanded, fighting to keep his voice even.

The older man shrugged noncommittally. His tone took on the quality of a schoolteacher rattling off mindless facts.

"The Utah facility was a lot like my lab, Albert – a home to second–priority research. Reston, as you know, was posted there for an indeterminate amount of time to work with the samples of Griffith's strain – using it in tandem with his own projects and testing T-Virus applications more extensively with animals. When reports were withheld and messages left unanswered, a team was immediately sent in to investigate. They found the lab destroyed; there was evidence of intruders, a few dead, and several hundred thousand dollars worth of damage. Reston was dead – they had to identify him by blood DNA – and one of his more… _impressive_…creatures was loose, feasting on the dead and undead alike."

"_Fossil_," Wesker said aloud, recalling the nickname applied to the beast stored at the Utah facility in question. Temporarily distracted, he asked, "They were able to save it, no?"

Renault's temporary calm disappeared, replaced by aggravation. "I don't know, Albert – I'm sure they did. That's not important now. What's important is finding out who's inside my lab!"

Wesker's immediate reaction was to tell the bastard to go fuck himself, but he remained in control, fixing his face into a painful smile. "Of course," he said softly. "I will begin immediately."

"Good," Renault said shortly, irritably, and then the screen went black.

Wesker sat in silence, staring at the spot where Renault had previously sat, offering excuses and making demands. He hadn't admitted to anything – not that he really needed to.

Wesker was already reading between the lines, formulating hypotheses.

Reston's murder: another factor in reforming the Watchdogs, another example of the mole at work inside Umbrella, another reason the S.T.A.R.S. knew as much as they did. But why had Umbrella withheld information concerning the Utah disaster from him? In comparison to the Raccoon disaster, it was nothing monumental, but with the codebook passing hands…

He shook his head. _This _is_ monumental!_

And the S.T.A.R.S. – formidable already – were that much closer to getting the drop on Umbrella and finally exposing the truth. They knew enough, knowledge bred from a year and a handful of months of firsthand experience with the Virus. That Redfield and company had been able to get into the Utah lab bespoke of their initiative, and Wesker had no doubt that they had come tonight fully prepared.

He actually felt the grimace crawl over his face. Long had he anticipated another confrontation with Redfield and Valentine. Burton too, but he was so much more predictable: he let his emotions get in the way of duty, and that was what had allowed Wesker to use the man back at the Spencer Estate almost a year earlier.

But however much Wesker had fantasized about eventually killing them all, he had always planned on meeting them again on territory of his own choosing – not a sensitive area in which they could easily cause much damage. And despite his dislike of Renault and the ever–widening riffs between him and Umbrella, Wesker knew that allowing the S.T.A.R.S. any margin of success was unacceptable.

_Which means I'll have to prove that I have as much initiative as they do._

Which, of course, he did: he had more.

Albert Wesker lived by one motto: "Expect nothing", a play off of the former Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. adage, which had been "Expect the unexpected." His rendition was infinitely less original, but it ensured that nothing ever surprised him.

As always, he was on top of this game.

He looked around the conference room, drumming his fingers on the arms of Renault's chair. There was so much he had left to do – too much, with too little time. And he _still_ had no idea what it was that Renault had even wanted him on–site for. But there was no sense in mulling that over now.

Wesker got swiftly to his feet, heading for the exit, something like excitement fueling him.

No – it wasn't that. It was urgency.

His head was cool, his reason remained sound, and his heart was as cold and merciless as ever.

Time was of the essence: he had not enough, and none to lose.


	16. Lockdown

**Chapter 15: Lockdown

* * *

**Umbrella Research Facility  
Hall #32; Sector 2  
21 July, 1999  
2118 hrs (9:18pm)**

* * *

**

Jill Valentine leaned around the corner, pointing her Beretta into the deep blackness beyond.

Her eyes had long since adapted to the darkness filling the endless, identical corridors. She had even begun memorizing the standard layout of the complex, and was gaining the ability to predict what would be around the bend. So it was with ease – and no small relief – that she detected no movement down hall 32, and waved her companions past her into that long stretch of sterile emptiness.

Captain David Trapp flashed past her, a living shadow, and took up position halfway down the uniform hall where the first two sets of doors were located. Keeping careful watch over the bend in the hall further down, he signaled for the Betas to check the adjacent rooms.

They were in the employee section of the lab – Sector 2, the second level of the facility – where lockers, showers, and even sleeping quarters could be found. It could possibly have felt homey if it hadn't been for the institutionalized–hospital feel, and then there was the knowledge that unspeakable things were going on beneath their feet.

Of course, living underground could also breed claustrophobia.

Palmieri had informed them only a few minutes ago that they would need to find a keycard to access the restricted areas of Sector 3. Apparently, there was supposedly one hidden in a locker in Sector 2 somewhere. And so, Palmieri had directed David and his Betas – who were closest, due to their entry vector – to make a pit stop and locate it.

_I spy a fucked–up quest,_ Jill had thought furiously as Boss relayed the orders. After all, why had no one thought of this before Freebird had gone operational? Chris and Barry had managed to cover everything else.

Laura Piescotte slowly turned the knob on the first door to their right and peered into the pitch cavern. John Andrews leaned on his shoulder against the wall to Laura's left, pointing his Beretta over the other Beta's head.

"Lights," David commanded in an undertone.

"Why?" John whispered back. "You don't want me and the ladies to have fun in the dark?"

No one laughed: they didn't have the time or the energy.

David and Jill remained on lookout while Laura, John, and Melissa Mason crawled into the room, one–by–one igniting their flashlights. The door slid shut noiselessly, trapping the light behind the nondescript window inset in the door at eye–level.

Once they had gone, David glanced over at Jill. She couldn't see anything of his features other than his glittering eyes, and they were intense.

"Are you alright?" he asked shortly.

In many ways, she was his superior, if not in rank. In the past, such a question might have angered her less mature self, but now she stopped to consider it. A quick synopsis told her that her heart was beating rather quickly and her palms were sweating inside her skintight gloves. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the recycled air – foul tasting through her mask.

"I'm good," she replied softly, genuinely grateful that he had asked.

David gave a barely perceptible nod. "It's not really the time to discuss this, but I've heard so much praise about you from the others." His dark eyes were still dancing up and down the hall, and he kept his accented voice to an undertone. "They praise you for your bravery at Raccoon and your initiative. I just wanted to say that it's a pleasure to finally get to work with you."

She wanted to say "thank you" or something – _any_thing along those lines – but found she couldn't. Remembering Raccoon at a time like this made her chest ache with grief and guilt.

David seemed to understand her silence. She shook the sensation off, chasing it away with another deep breath. _Get undistracted, Valentine,_ she ordered herself. _Focus._

The three shadows that were the other Betas rejoined them in the hall, flashlights already extinguished. They had found nothing. In an emotionless whisper, David told them to move on to the next room – a locker room, which held promise.

Two hallways – 33 and 34 – and a tiny cafeteria later, they were still empty–handed. Jill was sweating through her skintight outfit, and the drafty halls – echoing with the thrum of the air conditioners – did nothing to cool her down.

David held up a hand, bringing the team to a stop. Jill – near the head of the group – automatically assumed lookout, taking up a spot near the next bend in the corridor. Mirroring her, John took rear as the other two women remained closer to David.

"We have no time for this," they heard the Captain mutter as he fingered the mic hidden beneath his mask. "Boss?"

There was a pause, and then Director Palmieri's voice came through. "_I'm here._"

David held two fingers to his ear. "Sir, we need a more directed search pattern – if we search all of Sector 2, we'll find nothing in time to get out before Umbrella support arrives."

"_I'm not sure exactly what to tell you, Captain,_" Palmieri replied in a clipped tone of voice. He wasn't a proud man, so it wasn't the fact that his orders were being questioned that was aggravating him. It had to be the press of time.

"Give us some room numbers of living quarters so we don't search each room unnecessarily," David said. "Do the lab blueprints show the locations of lockers or closets for personal belongings?"

Another pause.

Greg Defkine: "_I've got some room numbers, Captain. As for lockers, I would assume there would be some in the lavatories down hall 16-2a – back the way you just came. That's the best I can do._"

David sighed in frustration. "Okay. We'll check those bathrooms. Thanks."

Jill spoke almost without thinking. "Boss? Do we know what that delivery truck was dropping off?"

"_Negative on specifics,_" Palmieri replied bemusedly. He was probably looking at the live security feed. "_Activity in the loading bay is at a minimum currently, but the shipment definitely contained illegal materials – considering time of arrival._"

Jill frowned beneath her mask. "Should we investigate?"

"_Negative,_" Tom Kurtz said, making a first appearance. "_Stick to the main assignment._"

Jill wanted to tell the asshole to stuff it, but Palmieri spoke before her righteous anger could form the words. "_If there's time on the way out, I will leave the decision up to Captain Beta's discretion,_" he said. "_For now, acquiring the Virus is our highest priority._"

"Roger that, Sir," David said. "What's the status on the other teams?"

"_They're proceeding, Captain,_" Palmieri said shortly, pointedly. "_Specifics are inessential at the moment. However, should the need arise, you will be enlightened._"

"Understood, sir." David straightened as the transmission cut.

"Why is he keeping us in the dark?" Laura asked in a hushed tone. She almost sounded annoyed. "We _can_ contact the others on our own."

"He just wants us to stay focused." Jill leaned back against the wall to relax her nerves for a moment, allowing the reinforced sheetrock to support her full weight. "Let's head for the lavatories for now – that's our best bet."

"Yeah, and I gots to take a piss," John muttered.

It took them roughly eight minutes to backtrack and locate hall 16-2a – eight full minutes that they didn't have to spare. And there were the main bathrooms for Sector 2. Men's and women's rooms were opposite one another and doorless; privacy came in the way of the elongated L–shaped entrances. While David remained outside on watch, Jill and John took the men's room while Laura and Melissa took the women's.

It would have been impossible to work in the blackness, so Jill lit her flashlight and saw John do the same. She blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the sudden harsh light. Shining the torch around the chamber, Jill took in the tiled floors and the huge mirror hanging above the row of sinks. Everything echoed, due to the vast empty spaces and painfully regular dimensions. The two rows of men's lockers stood parallel in the middle of the changing area, across the way from the showers. The best way was to search systematically, so Jill took a row and John took one. Most of the lockers hung open, but several were closed, and –

"This one's locked," John announced suddenly. His voice was unnaturally loud in the echoing bathroom.

"Use your silencer," Jill said. It would be the quickest way.

She continued her search in silence – using time wisely, just in case John found nothing – and was just nearing the end of her row when she heard the high whistle and a metallic _thunk_ pierce the silence. Jill held her breath, one hand holding her Beretta, the other trailing the flashlight beam on the far wall.

"Got a shirt, wallet, and… no way. A _Bible_? How does _that_ work? Sorry, Jill. Uhhh, a set of keys – I think they're to a car – aaaaand… _Jackpot!_"

Jill came around the end of the row quickly, her heart thumping with excitement. "You're not screwing with me, are you?"

"No, no – definitely a keycard." John shifted so that she could add her flashlight to his. He was holding a plain beige card, certainly uncharacteristic of Umbrella's traditionally melodramatic security measures, but it had a magnetic strip on the lateral edge and there were definitely electronic components within.

"No markings, but it's as good a bet as any," John said, and she could tell he was smiling even though his face was invisible.

She nodded, pleased but certainly not eager. "Let's go."

* * *

**Security; Sector 3  
****2126 hrs (9:26pm)  
- - -**

Albert Wesker stood behind the tech in Sector 3, observing the security screens full of S.T.A.R.S. activity. There were two groups they could track currently, and there was a third which had disappeared somewhere, leaving the quarantine bay a disaster area behind them – full of fifteen dead Umbrella security commandos.

These were unacceptable losses for such a galling lack of results.

It was hard to tell where exactly the S.T.A.R.S. had gone. It was obvious that they had used the emergency tube, which led directly down into Sector 3. But they had disappeared off the cameras for that very reason: surveillance in the secret corners of the lab was kept at a minimum.

That left one available option.

"Do it," Wesker ordered.

The tech looked up at him, eyes wide and questioning. Even though he said nothing, the man's reservations were obvious. Had he lacked self–control, Wesker might have killed the grunt just for doubting his wisdom. But he was in control, and his wisdom was undeniable.

Drastic circumstances required drastic measures.

"Do it," Wesker repeated softly, his tone daring the little man to defy him.

The tech blew out a deep breath, and then reached for the release levers. A warning message blossomed on the main readout, but the tech ignored it as he pulled the first lever, then the second.

All twelve of them.

Wesker smiled thinly. He gave the man's shoulder a firm pat, as though he gave a damn about the grunt's insecurity. "Lock it down," he said.

The man turned to look at him again, and this time his eyes were wide and fearful. "Sir, you realize that if I do that, we'll be trapped in here _with _them."

Wesker cocked his head to one side. "Your concern is duly noted."

His upper lip sweating, the tech tapped the appropriate passcode into the computer, prompting another warning to splash across the screen. There was a dull tone, which rang through the facility, and then a rainbow of uneven colors and endless strings of meaningless letters and numerals dissolved the program on the terminal screen.

– which was quickly spattered with the tech's blood as Wesker put a bullet through the man's head. The tech slumped in his chair without a sound, chin drooping to his chest, leaking viscous fluids onto the console.

Lowering the Eagle, Wesker turned on his heel and exited the control room, out into the black corridor. The tech's death was necessary, and could not have been preempted. No one was to know who had ordered the release of the test subjects: such knowledge would be very detrimental to Wesker's rise on Umbrella security's totem pole, after all.

But the man whom he had just killed had been correct about one thing: with the lockdown in effect, there was no way out of Sector 3. It was a failsafe, and for once, Wesker found himself praising Renault for his anal–retentive security measures. Basically, the tech had scrambled every password and code in the entire facility, making it virtually impossible for anyone to get in or out. The elevators were also shutting down and the stairwells locking, so passage between sectors would be equally impossible in a matter of seconds, although all electronic doors _within_ the Sectors themselves would be opening and locking that way.

But Wesker had his own codes – Watchdog codes, which would effectively override anything the Umbrella mainframe could throw at him. It was another failsafe, one that _he_ had insisted upon – just in case of an emergency.

And so he smiled, not without a little pleasure. _He_ could get out, even if the S.T.A.R.S. could not.

* * *

**Computer lab; Sector 3  
****2126 hrs (9:26pm)  
- - -**

The chime echoed eerily in the emptiness of the lab.

Justin Cantori's flesh immediately puckered with gooseflesh beneath the skintight outfit. The very atmosphere of the lab had suddenly become palpably more threatening, although he didn't know why. He craned his neck to find the source of the noise, looking all around in the spacious cavern of a computer lab the Alphas had come across. The room was gloriously empty, and it was dark because they had not turned on any lights. The only illumination came from the flashlights they each carried and the dim glow of the few lit terminals.

"If that's the hell train's bells, I'm disappointed," Leon muttered, and his voice carried in the stillness as the chime lingered.

The rest of the Alphas had previously been spread out within the lab, but now they were gravitating back towards Chris's position by the glass doors. They would have blended with the darkness if it hadn't been for the lightsabers they were carrying.

Chris was already keying communications with the control van. "Boss?"

The Director came through almost instantly, and even over the poor frequency, they could hear the anxiety in his tone. "_Captain, we have a serious problem – our codes have all been scrambled and all the cameras have gone blank. We're blind out here._"

"_Umbrella knows we're here,_" Greg Defkine informed them grimly. "_They're taking drastic measures._"

Chris swung his fist heavily into the sheetrock wall, denting it. "_Fuck_!" he screamed, loud enough to make them all wince.

"_I'm doing what I can, Captain,_" Defkine said, and his voice was even, calming. "_Just_ _give me a few minutes to isolate the repeated code and I'll start working on breaking it. I'll open what I can and make do with what I can't._"

_Good luck,_ Justin thought, not without a little panic. What he'd seen of the passwords used in the facility was enough to dampen any optimism.

"How are we going to get out?" Fred Eyong asked, glassy eyes sparkling in the light of Jeff's flashlight. His voice was raspy, full of phlegm: the tear gas had wreaked havoc on his respiratory system.

"Not now," Chris snapped at him. The Captain was leaning heavily on a computer desk, head hanging weakly – defeated.

"Was it the commando squad?" Leon demanded. "Could they have triggered the lockdown, or did this come from the mainframe itself?"

"_No way to tell specifically,_" Palmieri replied. "_The order was_ _definitely executed from inside the facility, though, so it's a safe bet that the commandos were responsible. What concerns me is the fact that we just witnessed all of them leaving the facility. And I mean _all _of them. As far as we can tell, you are the only ones left in the building._"

"Doesn't really make a difference," Jeff said, the voice of reason. He was standing next to Justin. "Question is, what are we going to do about this?"

Justin found his voice again. "Yeah – can we move between floors, or are we stuck here until the morning shift comes in?"

"_As of right now, that's anyone's guess,_" Palmieri replied tersely. "_We need a few minutes to re-gather our intel. Until we're back up and running out here, I don't think I need to tell you to be careful._"

"_One other thing,_" Defkine said before Chris could cut the transmission. "_We're still inside the mainframe, although it's essentially like standing in drying concrete. We've got some sort of alert that came through here –_"

"What is it?" Chris asked, raising his head out of curiosity.

"_The text is garbled because of the lockdown, but I can make out three words,_" Defkine replied. "_Sector 3, release, and hosts. Does that mean anything to you, Captain?_"

Apparently it did, because Chris's body went visibly rigid. He swayed on the spot, suddenly lost to the bleak world that was the research lab. "So that's why they left," he breathed.

"_Captain?_" Palmieri called uncertainly.

Justin frowned and looked to the others, judging their reactions against his lack of one. Since they were all wearing facemasks, it was hard to tell, but he got distinct senses of uneasy tension from Jeff and Leon. Peréz and Eyong were concerned, he could tell, but not to the same extent as their veteran fellows.

"Yeah, it means something," Chris croaked finally. He turned and looked at Leon, his eyes wide with very real fear.

"_**What**__, Captain?_" Tom Kurtz, the AD, demanded.

Chris swallowed hard, searching Leon's hidden face for answers or maybe relief. But he found none, because Leon had none to offer in the first place.

"It means," the Captain said finally, "that we're not alone."


End file.
